It is late summer when the air is sticky and thick;
he is watching you peel away the flesh of a pomegranite - 
watching the way the juice stains your mouth.
You are eating a piece of fruit but he is watching you
unzip your skin and reveal to him the curvature of your spine,
carved to rival the ridges of the Rockies,
and he is watching the pools of your eyes give way
to a hundred thousand droplets of rain, he is memorizing
the ripples and he is falling in love with the sunlight on your shoulders
glowing like the hillsides of his homeland.

The End

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