I’ve never known a gentle love.
Maybe there’s something in my rain-soaked soil of a heart that doesn’t allow people to take root; the way I value men, with their three-day-old beards and tired eyelashes, is the tender way one cups water the first time they swim in the sea.
Lovers don’t come built in timber and smoke anymore. The old ways bloom in my chest like goldenrod and wild jewelweed- left feral and furious under mist and moon.
I watch the wind scatter leaves and litter and wonder: Will I ever know a soft touch, simple as moss and morning?
©️ Pearl Bayou