You never knock, just crash through ceilings in thunder heels.
You ghost me with fog, flirt with the moon,
and leave pollen on my doorstep like cryptic love notes.
I have seen you dressed in monsoon silk,
barefoot in sandstorms,
wearing mountain ranges like shoulder pads
and rivers like mascara that never runs.
You are chaos in couture,
a vine that strangles and a breeze that forgives.
You kiss with oxygen,
but you bite with bees.
I tried to tame you once,
built fences, trimmed hedges,
named you “landscape.”
You laughed in wildfire.
I love you in drought and flood,
in cracked soil and overgrown jungles.
I love you when you bloom without permission,
when you rot with purpose.
So here I am
kneeling in your dirt,
offering my plastic sins,
asking for nothing
but one more sunrise
and the mercy of shade.
