It was the season of fruit flies
that brought us to the orchard—
no reptile could ever convince me
that you were the gravest of sins.
I caught what suddenly plunged
with the hustle of a magician—
we did not chatter about gravity,
but our eyes refused to oppose.
You broke it into perfect halves
as if separating had to be exact—
mine wetted the sulk of my lips,
while yours sugared your tongue.
The leftover was the hardest pit,
the seed too stubborn to crack—
you weighed it time and again,
the pounding of the whirlwind.
Tonight did not seem moonless
as I traced our walk on the dirt—
the solace before my suffocation,
the juice of the stone fruit we had.
