We danced around the soil for months,

feet gentle, hearts tighter than fists,

pretending the seeds we dropped

were accidents.

We told ourselves we were gardeners of restraint,

never tending too close,

never staying long enough for roots.

We didn’t dare name the sun between us,

though it warmed our skin all the same.

Didn’t speak of how our shadows stretched

just to touch.

Silent vines reaching in the dark.

You laughed when I said I liked the rain.

But I wasn’t joking.

The downpour was safer,

drenching everything but the truth.

Because love, like spring,

creeps in soft and slow,

a whisper of green

breaking brittle ground.

Petals pushing through the cracks

we swore were sealed,

colour blooming where there was compost,

hope sprouting from drought.

And now.

I feel the ache of the first bud,

tight and trembling with want,

so close to opening it almost hurts.

The hush before confession

is louder than thunder.

The garden holds its breath.

Once the flowers bloom, we’ll be doomed.

Blooming means light,

and light means being seen,

watching each other unfold

and praying we still want what’s underneath.

Naming it means tearing the veil

from this soft, sacred almost.

Risking rot if the weather turns.

Washing what was, away.

But I am already soaked.

I have pressed my palms to the dirt,

felt the pulse of something alive beneath it.

I have waited through winter,

half-starved,

for the chance to see you bloom.

So if it dooms us,

let it.

If it ends in ash and overgrowth,

so be it.

What if love was never meant to be safe,

only beautiful.

There are worse things than withering;

like never letting the garden grow

at all.