Posted in poetry

Delicacy

I’ve been the apricot
pit
in a box of peaches
and the only honey
in the comb
but I’ve never
been the apple of your
eye

I’ve been the crop’s
cream
the butter on your
bread
and spilled the milk
that made you cry.

Love is a delicacy
and we aren’t on
the menu
or the chef’s mind
because I am insatiable and I
can always have a bite.

But what becomes of
this
shall remain in the compost
and we won’t remember
our appetites in the morning
because we are so
full at night.

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Author:

Poetic moments in the words of a dreamer and other randomness in the words of a believer. "Hang yourself, poet, in your own words. Otherwise, you are dead." ~ Langston Hughes

2 thoughts on “Delicacy

  1. UPDATE: Does “I can always have a bite” and “we aren’t on the menu or the chef’s mind” signify a specific fact about yourself as far as what you do or will do for one’s appetite?

    Sounds to me like one can’t get enough of you?

    Like

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