I built a garden in my chest
with things you never said—
planted hopes in rows of maybes,
where your silence softly spread.
I watered it with almosts,
trimmed the silence like vines,
taught the leaves to chase the light
you never said was mine.
But nothing real grew—
just a heart dressed up as soil,
soft enough to cradle you,
but never meant to spoil.
You were the seed that never stayed,
the wind that kissed, then flew.
And I — the ground where you once rested,
but never rooted you.
prolly the last for today 🤍