I did not bloom for you.
I wasn’t planted with hope of a hand like yours
to pluck what I became.
I was here.
Growing in a quiet grove,
on the edge of the unseen—
roots tangled in silence,
leaves turned to a sun I thought only I could feel.
You came like weather.
Not loud,
but felt.
A shift in the light.
A question in the wind.
I didn’t call to you.
But still,
you found me.
I watched you stumble in—
mouth stained from strange fruits,
eyes glazed from sweetness that lied.
And I knew you were not lost.
You were done.
Done with wandering.
Done with feasting on ache.
Done with mistaking hunger for worth.
You looked at me like I was something
you’d dreamed once and forgotten.
Like tasting me
woke up something ancient in you.
And it did in me, too.
Because I didn’t know I was waiting—
not for you,
but for recognition.
For a mouth that didn’t devour,
but asked.
For hands that didn’t harvest,
but listened.
And when you bit into me,
you didn’t praise.
You closed your eyes
and let silence say it.
That was the moment.
No music.
No miracle.
Just two beings
who didn’t know they were searching
until they stopped.
Now here we are.
Still.
Rooted.
Fed.
Not written in the stars—
but grown in the dirt,
together.