FRUITLESS

Every
evening, the
pushing of the
hour, and the staying
of the day, you listened.
Every time we touch, I count.
But all I learnt in this exile
was that every muscle in my hand ached
for yours. Yes. We are not alright. This isn’t
love, but a close second. Careless creator, why do you
make hearts that bruise like overripe fruit? Things go to pieces.
The self is the same – it must be taught that if I ought,
then I must: to grasp the heart, enter the chambers, shut the door;
to eat the heart, to eat the heart. We all have blood in our mouths.

—
for prompt 29