You Have One Apple. The Apple Turns Into A Woman. How Many Apples Do You Have?

I drink my heartbeat in a cup

Of cold coffee,

I sit and rest my words.

The apple never takes a respite:

Incessantly beguiling temptress,

Relentlessly pulsing with sugars, hiding that star

At its core; it is

Flirtatious in its mouthless silence.

Hallucination, she appears. She has a voice

Both soft and rough, like

The sound of crunching rind, the ends of her

Sentences dropping off— dribbles of juice.

I can feel the wet sweetness on my eyelids

When I blink.

Her apple seed eyes close-open black

From the flawless delicacy of a woman’s face, a woman’s

Untouched, unclothed body

It’s like she’s riveted in space

By those restless atramentaceous irises.

“Granny Smith” has never been

A sensual term

But as those crisp viridian nails

Comb through bough-brown hair,

Skim her neck,

Drift lower,

I want the sensations of those fingertips.

Who’s flesh is fruit now?

Please, pick me.

She approaches, (apple on the nightstand)

Her breath is dew

The leaves outside stir with wind.

Her skin is close enough to touch.

The apple on the nightstand throbs

With wanting.

Tones of McIntosh color her cheeks,

Reflect in twilight

Off the dimples

On her back.

Please pick me.

I do not want her heart.

A convenience since

She does not have one.

She is an apple…

I am unconvinced.

She tells me

To release her from the fortress

Of the tree,

To let her lie upon the cool

Wet grass.

A shudder sneaks up,

And slithers round my spine,

Wrapping my skin in goose bumps.

My hand lands flat on her blush yellow stomach.

Her flesh feels like apples in my mind

Smooth and cool. Please,

(She needs me) I say,

Pick me.

My heart gallops in a frantic rhythm

The cold coffee spills into my lap.

And with the caffeine, she is gone.

The apple glares disdainfully

From beside the rumpled bed.

The apple asks

With resentment,

“Why didn’t you pick me?”

The End

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