As we were thrown from the garden for a predestined fault, I hid bulbous seeds in your full dark hair. Like brown and black gems they hung there, the small fibers anchoring themselves, and you nurtured them even as the roots entered your scalp. You told me you heard whispers as you would fall asleep, and I saw your days were spent laying near streams, digging into pine needles, draping yourself over boulders, searching for something I thought was beyond me. You said your friends were numberless and that they’d taught you to sing.
For weeks I cradled you as you slept, and watched as your hands tilled passionately into the earth. It felt like you were always sinking. I would kiss your cold forehead throughout the night, and though you were distant, your eyes would sometimes open and your mouth would open to kiss me back; you tasted like the tiny blue flowers in the garden we’d pinch between tongue and teeth for a dab of nectar and drop at our feet as a trail home.
You radiated energy that I could feel aqueous in my marrow even years after I could no longer make you respond – into the days when I had given up eating so I could wilt and join you. Now when sometimes we are dust, caught up and dispersed, we wait for the rain to feel human again.