maybe

You grew in the middle of my garden

where nothing romantic was supposed to survive.

Just friendship.

Just two people

watering the same patch of ground

without asking what the roots were becoming.

Then one spring,

something strange appeared.

A single fruit

hanging from a branch

I swear wasn't there before.

Gold as temptation.

Heavy as consequence.

I named it Maybe.

And ever since,

the whole garden has felt different.

The birds sing rumors.

The wind keeps pushing me toward it.

Even the sunlight lingers

like it's waiting to see what I'll do.

You stand beneath the tree unaware,

talking about your day,

while I'm fighting the oldest battle known to man

whether desire is worth the exile.

Because I know what happens in stories.

One bite

and paradise becomes memory.

One confession

and suddenly every laugh has a history,

every silence has a meaning,

every friendship has a before and after.

So I keep my hands in my pockets.

Pretend I don't notice

how the fruit gets riper each time you smile.

Pretend I don't hear it calling my name

when the conversations stretch past midnight.

Pretend the branch isn't bending lower

with the weight of everything unsaid.

But temptation is patient.

It doesn't knock.

It grows.

And some nights

I swear the garden disappears altogether.

There's only the tree.

Only the fruit.

Only me standing beneath it,

starving.

Wondering if hunger

is easier to survive than loss.