UnHarvested 🌳🍎

 I once asked love to be a house.

Not a mansion, not a castle. Just four walls that didn’t sigh in winter and a roof that wouldn’t flinch at rain.

Simple, isn’t it?

Yet the carpenter’s hands were always busy elsewhere; nailing promises into air. Leaving me to trace the blueprint on the tablecloth with a fingertip and an ache.

I thought perhaps love could be a garden. Like the kind where fruit appears in its own time.

But I watered with impatience. Pulled at stems before they rooted, expecting strawberries in January, and apples in the heat of June.

The soil whispered back: 

"Not yet, not yet." 

I mistook not yet for never.

There was a night we tried to climb the stars together. You said if we leapt at the same time, we might catch one and keep it. 

So we did leap.

We fell back laughing, palms scraped by gravel, eyes full of sky that seemed to mock us with its stubborn distance.

Was that failure? Or was that proof of how far we were willing to reach?

The cruelest part is not that love promises the impossible. But that it hints the impossible might simply be delayed.

A house. A harvest. A star.

All within sight, all beyond reach.

Like waiting for a letter you’re certain was written, but never mailed.

So I sit in the orchard we never harvested. The blueprint fading in rain, my hands still stained with soil and sky.

And I wonder:

"Was it love I wanted, or the miracle of timing?"