Persimmons on the kitchen counter,
ripe and fragrant,
as intention usually is,
fingertips stained with sweet taste
turning a blind eye to ebony clouds outside;
I was not supposed to eat them.
This morning, I walked out right into
the eye of the storm,
it was a mistake most willing made,
provocative, persuasive, perilous and perfect—
sometimes we do what we want
doing what we ought,
sometimes we even deeply enjoy it.
I err because I am human,
wayward and wild,
I flirt at the edge of danger, holding onto
I tell you about ache; write you
into every line of my wanton poetry
and in the end
beg for myself to be found again.
I do it, you do it, these thoughts are softer
than I ever imagined they would be,
when lips touched the cold cheek but
didn’t seem to care,
it carried on kissing me,
caressing my face, not wanting to disconnect;
that’s humanity for you.
with the description of darkened innocence,
as orchids, as winter’s remorse,
a secret delight filled
with both melancholy and silent will to amend,
to be modified.
Maybe I will learn someday.
Photo credits: Three red tomatoes on white textile, Unsplash.
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Posted for Poetics: A Penny for your Thoughts @dVerse Poets Pub