The garden

I followed you into the garden
that first time
hoping you’d see me
as I wanted to be seen
Eden before the serpent
young, innocent,
believing in miracles
as fools and dreamers do.

Each time we went
we were new,
an unspoiled canvas
eager for its first blush of color,
carelessly reinventing love
in our own image.

When you didn’t come
I searched for my darkness,
a counterweight to the joy
still beating in my chest.
Yet I found not emptiness,
just the reflection of love
urging me onward.

We were not destinations,
but journeys.