I bring her red fruits

Love is messy,
and sweet, I think,
paused for a moment
in my efforts for my beloved,
fingers stained,
nails dug into flesh,
flecks of red splashed up my arms,
my cheek.

I draw the knife
around the dark cherries,
split them in two with my thumbs,
and smile
to bare my teeth.
I bite the pit free from one side,
my mouth touching the soft, sweet red.

Half a kiss,
to be fully realized
when she plucks it from the bowl
and brings it to her lips.

The ripe peach is washed in warm water,
the pads of my fingers slowly rubbing away
the dusting of fuzz,
the softsharp fur on yellowpink skin.

When I pull the stone
from its wet, red center,
I put it on my tongue–

I sigh around the weight of it
as I slice the fruit
from my hand into the white bowl,

–closing my lips on the secret,

until my teeth
take the last of its sweetness,
and I can discard it

with the rest of the scraps,
the rest of the leavings,
the feasts for the compost heap,
for the scratching chickens,
for the wild garden of our life together.

I bring her red fruits,
and bid her eat them with me,
that we will know things together,
and if my violent love of her is at all frightening,
she gives no sign,
and delights each time
I kiss her red-stained mouth
with my own.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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