Of Fruit

I met a woman who told me

the creases in my

hand held no hope

for children or

a life-long love.

I wondered if the word alone

tasted in her mouth as it did

in mine.

Sweet but not quite ripe,

salty but naturally preserved.

Could she feel it on her tongue,

the sharp prick of solitude?

She carried on

Cheap thrills        I heard her say

but I was stuck on the flavor of

autonomy, on the journey,

on my refined palette

and a promise of one-ness.

I left her tent, smiling,

and hungry.

Photo Credit: Marina K Caprara Flickr via Compfight cc