Nature Boy, 

I find myself grounded these days; My roots planted firmly into the soil you helped fertilize. My stem stretches skywards, my leaves soaking in sunlight. I worship my innate synthesization, and I praise the rain that falls. Nature Boy, I thank you, for nurturing me; for allowing my love to blossom. 

You repotted my growth, misted my petals, and placed me atop the shelf; The light let in, the beauty brought out. You admired my aesthetics, and I, the way you cared. Our love was symbiotic; benefitted despite our difference. You talked to me sweetly, loved on me gently, and made waves across our nonverbal psyches. What was natural to us, perhaps only natural to one, was the nature in us: the nature of love. 

Like the lives of our trees, our love matured slowly. Outside on the lawn, a field in Grant Park, Lan-ita was crooning, and I felt the spark. I leaned in to you, closely, our bodies a breath apart. Two months of growth: I told you ‘I love you’, temporarily meshing the two of our hearts. 

Not too long after, I cried by the creek: “I really do love you, but I’m sinking into Earth’s faults. Why bring you down with me? I’m not the garden’s only part!” Still, you reassured me; added minerals to my soil, a humidifier on my shelf, and a support attached my stem. 

Yet, my life was feeling wilted, our relationship moreso. You cared, and took care, like none other had before; I feared I couldn’t reciprocate, perhaps, better off, existing simply: town whore. 

I tried – for me, for you, for us – for a few months past my first wilt. You cultivated your love in me, and I attempted cultivation in you. I picked my petals, one by one, and wrote your name on each. When those had vanished, I stripped my leaves, tattooed them to your tongue. Soon, there would be nothing left: a smoking gun of the love I couldn’t give.

​I died just before winter began; I wilted, became frail, and naturally succumbed. Nature is meant to be cyclical; We grow till the pot is too small, brush death as we step towards our new life. Our pots did no longer suit us, so to the Earth’s soil our sparks to return. 

We grieved the love we had, the life we thought we lost. Still, Winter turned to Spring; Had something gone awry? Your last gift – of the garden – had finally been unearthed: My seed has germinated, my love now secured in a bulb. You gave me shelter and made me stronger; You reaped my rotting, and I, the love I’d never known. 

Nature Boy: Thank you, and I’m sorry. Our garden may be harvested, but its fruits remain alive. I hope your shelf is not empty; I wish your pot to take my place. So, root-down and stretch-up, Nature Boy; You are beginning to sprout.