My plants are green—
of course they are.
What else could they be?
The grass is green too.
But tell me—
is it greener
than the winter-bright blue
of your eyes,
sharper than cold,
sharper than knowing?
Is it as deep
as roses learning your mouth by heart,
as dark
as the places in me
that learned your name in silence,
that took on the color of your hair?
I don’t think I’ll ever know.
I live on the other side now—
where the grass is meant to be greener,
the sky owes me clarity,
the sun should love me more.
But your eyes still find me,
your lips still end my nights,
and your hair—
softer now, threaded with gray—
still tangles in my hands
like it never left.
They were right about the grass.
It is greener here.
But my plants are dead,
and I am still here,
loving you
like nothing else
is allowed to grow.
Feb 11
Feb 11, 2026 at 6:51 PM UTC
My plants are green—
of course they are.
What else could they be?
The grass is green too.
But tell me—
is it greener
than the winter-bright blue
of your eyes,
sharper than cold,
sharper than knowing?
Is it as deep
as roses learning your mouth by heart,
as dark
as the places in me
that learned your name in silence,
that took on the color of your hair?
I don’t think I’ll ever know.
I live on the other side now—
where the grass is meant to be greener,
the sky owes me clarity,
the sun should love me more.
But your eyes still find me,
your lips still end my nights,
and your hair—
softer now, threaded with gray—
still tangles in my hands
like it never left.
They were right about the grass.
It is greener here.
But my plants are dead,
and I am still here,
loving you
like nothing else
is allowed to grow.