My love is a seed flying from your fingers as they brush across my face. Little saplings take root in my mind, heart and deep inside my belly. Twisting toward the sun, branches slide through my insides and along my skin, reshaping my body as they grow. Bruises bloom on my throat and thighs, aching in a sweet reminder of the planting
My love is cultivated, tended and kept by skillful hands; hands that cradle the bright green buds, those frail pods carrying both hope and fear. With tenderness, you bring to life and with cold efficiency uproot and thin the rows. Like the changing seasons, your hands bring life and death in turn.
My love shivers with the breeze, it’s adolescent frame yielding to the changes in the weather. I prop myself against you, climbing you like a vine, encircling your ribs, drawing strength from your arms. I vibrate in your hands as you teach me to stand, blooming red as you
My love drops it’s fruit onto your lips, bursting with the sweetness of patient care and tang of rough-won maturity. Standing proudly, my arms yield fiery blossoms for the harvest. Seed, bud, branch, and vine all paying homage to the faithfulness of the farmer.
My love runs in your veins, it sings in your ears, slides doen your throat like new wine. Do you see me standing before you? Young, yes, young and shaky yet, but bursting with new life. The seed you planted no longer your own.
My love, you see, it grows.