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Poem


You were picked straight from the stem—
a fruit fresh atop the bowl of offerings,
something that must be
fleece laid over blade.
Not taken, but accepted.
Not bitten, but cradled.

And still, I would let you be
the spiked fruit between my teeth—
If you asked.
If not to taste your sweet,
then to feel your sting
against my tongue.
Pain can be a kind of proof,
and love, a kind of wound
you grow around.

I apologize
if I act too fast—
it’s not hunger, not wholly.
I am absent in the shape of affection—
I mistake kindness for feast.
Its a cruel thing I must train myself to hold,
like fire in the cupped hands of someone born frostbitten.

But you—
you are the first warmth
after too long buried in frost.
The breath I never meant to hold.
And now,
I do not know how to exhale
without spilling your name.

I would trace every bract down your skin.
I would cup your name like spring water,
and drink until I forget every frost that came before you.

Let me learn the patience of ripening—
to watch without reaching,
to want without wounding.
If I must love you,
let it be like dawn across a thawing field— no rush, nor taking.
Only the reverence of light
touching what it hopes to keep warm.

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