Everything that grows,
starts out in the dirt.
I know this when I press your body down,
when soil fills the hollows of your chest.
Our love was buried before it bloomed,
yet it still split the ground,
red shoots rising where your ribs once closed.
I drink from that wound,
silt and blood togetherβ
a sweetness I could never find in daylight.
The stars planted something for us long ago,
I can feel it blossom when I bury my face into you.
The petals as red as an open vein,
fragile, trembling towards your light.
If love is born from earth and shadow,
let us stay there,
close as seeds,
learning to bloom through each other’s wounds.
Is there nothing more sacred, my love?
To begin in the rot,
to make beauty from what once was decay?
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