There is a simple dew
drop truth that rests
on the swollen spine
of a leaf, heart shaped
on a vine
now withered.
Silently it sparkles
this message that neither
of us listened for
at the time:
You were not to be
split open
and I was not to be
tamed
Rather, needed nightly
was a white
ceiling
under which we could
each breathe
and be heard.
That vine waits
to be watered
by more than just
borrowed dew
and desperate tears,
now drying.
