If You Ever Fell

If you ever fell for me,

it would be like snow touching river—

quiet, unsure,

melting before the moment could name itself.

Not with fireworks or wildfire tongues,

but like moss claiming stone,

slow and certain,

soft where no one ever looked.

You would not confess it loudly.

It would sit in the corners

of late-night conversations,

where our silences speak in the language of trees—

rooted, listening,

not needing to sway to be felt.

Your care would be wind-shaped—

never caged, but present,

brushing across my thoughts

like pollen dusting the cheek of a closed bloom,

never asking it to open,

just letting it know spring has noticed.

And me—

I would be the cautious moon,

waxing behind cloud cover,

believing my glow was too subtle

to ever anchor your tides.

But if—

if you ever did fall,

you’d do so like the rain does:

not seeking applause,

just making things grow in places

that forgot they could soften again.

Still, I ask nothing.

I hold no nets to the sky.

This love—whatever shape it is—

is a fern curled in shade,

unfolding when it’s ready,

or maybe never.

Even that is beautiful.