love, read, write

How disgusting it is to see you eat fruit
like it is yours. That you picked what was in sight,
that somehow you could bring your lips to it
and give it a voice, a story. Birds can do
better — they choose carefully.
You don’t even look. Cherish your fruit that rots
knowing full well those seeds won’t bear you joy —
your first bite took it from all of us long ago.

Like slow waves, you crash
at my feet, your mind elsewhere:
her hair, her eyes, her lips —
all better than mine.
But still you tickle my toes
and the biting cold sings
sweet, sharp notes at every splash.

When the tide rises I fall
into the water, happily,
anticipating sea foam nibbling my neck,
thinking about the taste of the ocean.