Heart's door.

Hearts are planted in soils of uncertainty....roses grow from arteries and veins sprout pencil sharp aches and pains in a profound amalgamation of jumbled, tumbling emotions.

When comes a tentative knock at heart's door, be careful to whom you open it.

Here lies a poetic back-and-forth between Tristan and Delilah, steeped in the offer of possibilities - hearts as gardens of uncertainty, blooming with pain and beauty. Their dialogue unfolds like petals, each line a thorn or a tremble.

Tristan stood beneath the willow, fingers stained from tending the soil.

The garden had grown wild again.

Delilah approached, her boots crushing petals.

She carried a folded letter...it felt like a wound.

Tristan:

"Did you plant this ache, Delilah? These roses - too red, too loud. They scream in my chest."

Delilah:

"I only watered what was already trembling. Your heart was a greenhouse of ghosts before I arrived."

Tristan:

"And yet you knocked. You knocked like a whisper with teeth."

Delilah:

"I knocked because I saw the vines curling toward the moon. I thought they wanted company."

Tristan:

"They wanted silence. They wanted to bleed in peace."

Delilah:

"Then why did your veins write me poems? Why did your arteries bloom my name?"

Tristan:

"Because pain is fertile. Because uncertainty is a soil that sings when touched."

Delilah:

"And I touched it. I touched it with trembling hands and a heart full of broken pieces."

Tristan:

"You drew me. You drew me with graphite and grief. Now I’m smudged across your memory."

Delilah:

"Smudged, yes. But still visible. Still pulsing."

Tristan:

"Be careful, Delilah. The next knock might be mine. And I carry thorns."

Delilah:

"Then knock gently. I’ve planted new roses. They remember you."

.......................

Tristan and Delilah’s garden of aching hearts is being observed by a raven, curious and ancient, perched on the fencepost like a punctuation mark - inserting itself into the privacy of their unfolding story.

The wind shifted. A feather fell.

On the crooked fencepost, the raven landed - head tilted, one eye gleaming like a new coin. Curious, it listened.

Delilah:

"Do you think the roses remember pain, Tristan? Or do they just bloom because they must?"

Tristan:

"They bloom because the soil is soaked with lived and unlived lives. Every petal is a sigh we never spoke."

The raven blinked. It had heard many things - bones cracking under frost, sad melodies sung to empty cribs - but this was new.

Delilah:

"I opened the door once. The knock was gentle. But what came in wore my father’s voice and my mother’s grief."

Tristan:

"I opened mine too. It was you. You came in with a bouquet of apologies and a suitcase full of mirrors."

The raven cawed softly, not interrupting, just marking the moment. It wondered: were these humans planting love or burying it?

Delilah:

"Maybe hearts aren’t doors. Maybe they’re gardens with many gates. Maybe anyone can walk in and leave footprints."

Tristan:

"Then let’s plant thorns. Let’s teach the roses to bite."

The raven tilted its head again. Somewhere in its feathered remembering, it recalled a poem about blood blooming in silence.

Delilah:

"Do you think the raven understands us?"

Tristan:

"No. But it listens. And that’s more than most."

The raven fluffed its wings, considering. It would stay a while longer. These humans were strange - but their conversation of joy and sorrow was delicious.

The Raven speaks

The raven blinked once, then twice.

Its voice was not a caw, but a ripple in the air - like wine spilled across silence.

Raven:

"‘You plant hearts like seeds, but forget the weather.

Rain remembers. So does rot.’"

Tristan stepped back, startled. Delilah leaned in, her breath caught in the thorns.

Raven:

"‘I’ve seen gardens like yours.

One grew from a widow’s sigh.

Another from a child’s last laugh.’"

Delilah:

"Do they survive?"

Raven:

"‘They bloom. They bleed. They become stories.’"

Tristan:

"And ours?"

The raven tilted its head, considering.

Raven:

"‘Yours is still soft. Still trembling.

But beware the knock that wears a smile too wide.

Some visitors come not to enter - but to unravel."

The wind stirred the roses. One petal fell, landing on Tristan’s shoe like a warning.

Delilah:

"Why do you watch us?"

Raven:

"‘Because you speak in ache.

And ache is the only language I trust.’"

It fluttered its wings, but did not leave.

The garden had more to say.