Love does not come
When a rose blooms,
And warmth spreads
Across cheeks—watercolour
Painted by a caress of the
Fingertips.

It is not a butterfly that
Alights on the petals,
Craving a kiss of nectar.
Waiting for spring,
Growing shy when skies
Are grey.

Instead, love burrows into
The veins, like a symbiotic
Parasite, making a meal out
Of blood and the water
Of your tears.

A mushroom thriving
On rotten wood, releasing spores
In the wind, its smallness
Making ripples out of ecosystems.
It feeds the underground
And makes beauty out of
Decay.

Ashes, embers, and the
Waiting pressure
Of a coal bejewelled.
Diamonds out of fire.
Out of destruction.

Love is not a pretty thing,
Delicate or fleeting.
It is stubborn. It will break you
If you let it, or it will
Force the shine of hope
In eyes blinded by terror.

Love is not accidental.
Nor is it sunny, fair-weathered.
You choose it like a child
Who only knows the burn of
Fire, who keeps stretching its
Hand just for a glimpse of
Warmth