Between Bruises and Blooms

If I ever disappear,

don’t look for me
in cities.

You’ll find me
where ivy swallows forgotten homes
and mushrooms climb rotten steps.

I’ll be sitting barefoot
beside a candle.

Bong resting in the grass.

Hair smelling like smoke
and cedar.

Learning the names
of every crow.

Speaking to plants
like old friends.

Brewing tea
from things people mistake
for weeds.

The house won’t ask
why I came.

It already knows.

Broken things
always recognize
each other.