The Dangers of Eating Rotten Fruit

I ate your fruits,
my lips to your palms,
tongue on your fingers,
and black seeds.

Afterwards, I laughed,
weaving laces of deception around our love
like a virgin weaving her bridal veil,
whiter than the marble columns
you were afraid to lean on.

"They'r ancient", you whispered.
"So what?" I said, trying to be effervescent
and timeless as a river.

"God", you said, "That's such a corny metaphor".
"Why should God care about my metaphors?" I asked.

You laughed, our fingers laced into each other,
our bodies enmeshed like strings of peach-flesh,
or fig-seeds embedded in purple pulp in autumn,
skins cleaving to the brown ground.

I think I loved you then.

I am not sure, of course -
sometimes doubt tingles my spine like a lover.

On rainy nights, I press my face to the window,
pretending the raindrops are my tears.

I prefer the pane's cool glass
to tears, hot and salty
like the taste of your lips,
of rotten fruit
whose seeds still linger,
like figs in autumn,
entombed between my thighs.