One hesitates to draw near.
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The bough hands heavy with
the fruit of temptation.
Promises given, kept, unkept.
No matter in the now. You know
only this: the fruit will be sweet.
First kiss and you will be alive
in the moment. Your grey eyes
angled, arc skyward.
First time you feel that thing,
elusive, for so long. So then
when, over tea, he leans in and
his hand touches yours so barely
perceptible you startle, nervous,
as a starling and whatever
he says, you do not hear it.
Instead you watch the sum total
of detail: The Arabian sand of his skin,
the incense rising from the tea.
The all in this the moment
He says Try and offers you the cup.
You take a sip, fall in love.
I hear the fruit fall gently,
it runs rich, red and sweet.
Neither of you resists.
s.r.p. c. 2006.