Love Rooted in the Ribs

From dust, a moment formed—

everything began.

Love took root in bone,
deep in the ribs—
quiet, unseen.

Like bamboo—
years beneath the surface,
then suddenly—everything.

But the soil turned.
Poison crept in.

Some days,
I don’t recognize the eyes
that look at me.

The branches withered.
They said it was dead.

But roots remember.

What grows underground
is always stronger