I fell in love with a gardener—

someone who never rushed

a blooming thing,

who knew that love

was less about holding

and more about watering.

Their hands carried

the scent of fresh earth,

the kind that promises

something beautiful

is already on its way.

They smiled like sunflowers—

always finding the light

even after days

of endless rain.

Their laughter

was lavender,

quiet enough

to calm every storm

I carried inside my ribs.

Their kindness

was a daisy,

simple,

honest,

never asking to be admired

to be extraordinary.

Some days

they were a rose—

beautiful enough

to make the whole world stop,

yet guarded by thorns

that whispered,

"Handle me gently.

I've survived things

you'll never see."

Other days

they reminded me

of wildflowers

growing through cracked sidewalks,

proof that resilience

is its own kind of beauty.

Their patience

was a peony,

taking its time

before unfolding

into something

worth every season

of waiting.

And when they loved me—

they never tried

to make me

into a flower

I wasn't.

They simply knelt

beside the broken soil

of my heart,

pulled out the weeds

of old heartbreak,

watered the parts of me

I'd forgotten were alive,

and waited.

Not because they doubted

I'd bloom—

but because

they already knew I would.

I used to think

love was fireworks,

loud enough

to shake the sky.

Then I met a gardener.

And learned

that the greatest love stories

sound like rain,

look like dirt beneath fingernails,

and smell like jasmine

opening in the evening—

quiet miracles

that happen every day

to those patient enough

to grow them.

trust that everything will fall into place without you forcing it there.