The moss grew thick where you touched my skin,

soft as secrets, slick with sin.

We met in hush, beneath the willow shade—

a cathedral of green, where no vows stayed.

Your name was a ripple I couldn’t still,

your hands, a ghost of something real.

I wore your scent like a second spine,

hid your letters in the roots of pines.

You spoke like the moon had taught you how—

in riddles, in reverence, in “not now.”

And I, foolish, barefoot, breaking bloom,

let your shadow thread into my loom.

We were not saints, nor safe, nor sane.

We loved like drought, like fire, like rain.

Now the lake holds every lie we swore—

your wedding ring rusts on the forest floor.

Still, it grows through my ribs each spring,

still, I dream of your mouth like a prayer, like a sting.