The Fox and the Trail

 There’s only so long a path will wait

before the moss grows thick with silence.

Only so many sunrises a heart can greet

with hope before the dew stops falling.

You see, I never asked for fireworks—

just a candle.

Something steady. Something sure.

A flicker in your window

to say I’m not the only one still awake.

I showed up—

with pockets full of roots and good intentions,

with hands still calloused

from carrying people who never looked back.

I kept the rhythm,

even when the drumbeat was only in my chest.

But I am not a myth to chase.

Not some story you tell yourself

when the world gets too quiet.

I am not here

to be tested

or timed.

I’ve stood in your shadows long enough

to know which ones you cast

on purpose.

You say life is busy.

And yes, it is.

But don’t tell me about time

when I’ve spent mine weaving words

into bridges between our silences,

when I’ve answered

every unspoken question

with softness.

Foxes don’t chase what feeds them,

only what runs.

And I—

I have stopped running.

I waited through seasons

where the wind forgot my name,

through mornings

where your absence echoed louder than birdsong.

Still I stayed,

a steady bloom in your periphery,

hoping maybe, just maybe,

you’d turn your face toward the light.

But even the sun gets tired

of warming things that don’t reach back.

So hear me now—

this is not a threat.

It is a choice.

My own.

If I mean something—anything—

then you must do more

than let me hang in your orbit

like some moon you only notice

when the tides pull too hard.

Speak.

Act.

Plan.

Prove.

Don’t let me become

just another leaf you admired

but never bothered to catch.

Because I am not clingy.

But I do require care.

And I will not be watered

only when it’s convenient.

I am sweet, yes—

but not spun sugar.

I am strong, yes—

but not stone.

I am tired, yes—

but not empty.

I have made entire gardens from grief.

I’ve nursed wild things back to song.

So don’t mistake my quiet

for compliance.

If I walk—

you’ll feel it.

Like drought.

Like winter’s early hush.

Because this isn’t just about being wanted.

It’s about being chosen.

Every time.

Even in the mundane.

So decide.

Will you stand in this friendship like a tree

with roots that reach for something real?

Or will you keep playing

at shadows and silence,

until the trail I left for you

fades into something

you can never

walk back to?