There is a garden in me, hidden deep, where the wildest, most fragile flowers bloom. Their petals are the colors of secrets—deep reds and quiet purples, the shades of dusk when the sun kisses the horizon goodbye. I water them with my tears, though I never let anyone see them fall, and still, the flowers grow with a hunger I cannot satiate. They long for the sun, but the sun is hers. And I am the shadow, stretching and stretching in vain, never quite reaching the light.
She walks by the garden every day, her feet leaving traces in the soil like angels' wings tracing the edge of the world. She is the breath of creation, every word she speaks a divine utterance, every glance a touch of grace. She moves like an ancient river, winding through everything with an ease I will never have, a quiet confidence that makes me feel as if I’ve been standing in the same place for eternity, waiting for something I cannot name.
I want to reach out to her, to let the flowers of my soul unfurl in the warmth of her light. But the garden is so fragile, so vulnerable—its roots are tangled with the lies I’ve whispered to myself, and if I let her see it, if I let her in, it will wither like a fruitless tree, barren and dry.
She is the garden of Eden, and I am the serpent, slithering in the shadows, too scared to speak the truth. I am the fig leaf that covers nothing, the shadow of desire that lingers but cannot bear to be seen. I am the mistake, the broken branch, the fallen angel, and she—she is the one who belongs in the light, untainted, untouchable. Her eyes are stars in a sky that feels like a desert to me. When she smiles, it is like the first day of creation, when the waters parted and the earth breathed life into all things. She is the breath of God, and I am the dust, always seeking but never touching.
In the silence between us, I hear the thunder of my own unspoken words, crashing in my chest, threatening to tear me apart. But I hold them back, keep them locked in the hollowed-out temple of my ribs. The truth of what I feel for her is a sacrilege, an offering too pure for my hands to hold, too sacred for me to speak. My love is like the forbidden fruit, sitting on the edge of the garden, glowing in the soft twilight, calling to me like the voice of a deity I cannot touch.
And yet, she is so kind, so gentle, like the morning dew that touches every leaf without asking. She waters my garden with the kindness of a thousand tender rains, and every drop she gives me is a prayer, a gift I can never return. I don’t think she knows the weight of her presence, how it fills me with both salvation and sorrow. She is the manna in my desert, the thing I crave yet cannot have, the life that sustains me and kills me all at once.
The distance between us is a river of blood that I cannot cross. I am forever on the shore, watching as she sails to places I cannot follow. She looks at me, but her gaze is not like the touch of hands, not like the embrace I long for. Her kindness is like the sun, spreading its warmth across everything, but never staying long enough to heat me completely. She is the morning star, the one who rises and falls, while I am the night that can never hold her. She is a breath I cannot catch, a song I cannot sing. And I stand on the edge of the world, silent, waiting, wishing.
In the deepest part of my garden, the flowers wilt without her sunlight. The vines twist and curl like the serpents in my chest, and they suffocate the light that was once there. I cannot water them anymore. The rain has stopped coming. The flowers are turning to dust in my hands, and still, I stand, too afraid to tell her what grows inside me, what I’ve hidden in the garden of my heart. I cannot bear to let her see what’s growing there, because it’s a thing that will never bear fruit. It is a dream that will never bloom, a prayer that will never be answered.
She is a saint, and I am a sinner. She is the light of the world, and I am the darkness that creeps around it. I am the one who watches her, longing for something that can never be. I want to be the one who is loved, the one who is seen, but I am afraid that if I let her see me fully, I will be nothing but ashes in the wind. And so, I hold my silence like a stone, heavy in my chest, and I wait for the day when I can no longer pretend that I don’t love her.
But the garden of unspoken things will wither long before that day ever comes. And I will be left standing in the ruins of a love that was never meant to grow, with only the echoes of what could have been.