Soft
Sweet flesh,
summer scented longing.
Kiwi in a bowl.

Slash of steel,
slices green,
welcome ocean of respite,
the sight,
of splendid sea like skin.

Fingers trace,
tender, practised.
Burst of citrus,
tropical tang against tongue
that sucks fingers clean.

More pleasure
as they find again
little bumps of black seed.
Clinging, lover like,
an intimacy
arousing, envy.

Only fruit
can be so flawless.
How unromantic
to eat them now?
And what a dreadful waste.

The doorbell sounds.
And at once,
ceramic bowl of emerald treasure
is abandoned.
Forgotten as if,
it never even was.

And with it,
certain mid morning rhetoric.
Sunshine
on sunday mornings,
always inspire
the oddest ever sentiments
in me.