She uses all the best words to describe the freckles on an apple,
the grainy skin of a pear.
You have your phone, your business voice. She has her patience.
When the phone is off, she notices the thud in your chest as she rests her head on it.
She’s soft, a ripe apricot—
She dreams of orchards.
You dream of machines.
At the end of the day, her nails are stained with juice—
she laughs as she touches your nose with a grape finger.
She settles for a lazy embrace, a wound you call enchantment, as you settle
further into bed,
silent and dear.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment