Lone fruit grown on the barren tree. No pits in the planes of the harem leaves. Such ache for same that it plucked with ease at the first touch to curl ‘round its curve. A hand’s demand to tug upon its yearn, its greed. On the mesh of teeth discerned, picked of flesh but not of seed. Heart stripped, heart spit to scarcity.
My ace high hand bereft of pair gasps for, grasps towards air to lace the space between your fingers, weave my warp into your weft, knuckles rest on knuckles, palms press sweat cement, and in the concrete, wilds linger.
The mark you carved will hereon be a part of me. Lament this scar, but I’m not the kind to let it bleed. Coopt the mars to starve them of their larceny. Matter less these garment tears than how we wear our carpentry.