Have you forgotten how to cry?

Today I saw pomegranates lying on asphalt, their red seed-flesh spilling out of skins that remind me of crowns, or palms perhaps, cupping - what - gently? Gold, pearls, water, thighs. Lists of words and images ransack my brain, leaving only the debris - memories of nights when I felt you between my thighs, and other such trash, really much better to throw it out and leave it for the cats to mangle when they look for their supper. But the word mangle makes me tremble, and do I really want their claws on our moldy nights, rotten and crunchy like stale bread? (A redundancy, you would tell me.) No, much better to leave those crumbs inside, trying not to taste their - what? It's not bitterness exactly - a certain saltiness, perhaps, mixed with the wistfulness and sadness of the sea, who cries at night. Does she cry for me, the way they say God cries for his people? Does she imagine putting her salty waves on my palms, caressing my - (you always told me I overused the word "thighs") shoulderblades? Does she? Do you?