Meeting you is evermore like

biting into a custard apple

I only ever buy them once

a year, after the monsoons

On days which haven’t quite

decided to be summer or

winter yet, so I never know

if I should chill the fruit or

leave it out. I invariably put

it in the fridge because I know

I will want it when my body is

flushed hot with desire

I will hold it in my hands

pondering for a few minutes

over the impossibility of you

The quilted body a green

and a black, hard only in how

those colours remind me

of war and dirt. Though

when I press gently, the fruit

yields its soft insides to me

It disintegrates into a few

unequal pieces. I take one

to my mouth, hold in

with my teeth, close my

lips around, and then I am

the soldier’s heartbeat.

I want to swallow

the cold flesh whole and

let your pulp meet mine-

Always my tongue finds

these seeds playing seek,

one then another,

then more.

Reminding me how much

I want you and how little

of you I can have.

Cover art by Ava Sol on Unsplash.