HOLY IS THE SIN

deux

there are a myriad of apricot trees, acerb limoncello is passed by your couth hands, and the sun is sequestered somewhere beyond my line of vision.

it is a careful mimicking of nights yonder where the mediterranean bloomed indigo in the gleam of its verboten lover; apricating like a child who had only then grasped the simple mastery of buoyancy.

but loving you was never easy.

it was never hovering at the surface; the seafoam ripples keeping my lithe body afloat, drifting aimlessly to the further maritime to be a tale told by scurvied seafarers.

loving you took all of me.

the very pits of the mariana, my skin that withered (not into scale!), but into supple, shriveled flesh, the putrid insides of me that decayed with my amour like a forgotten fruit on a snapped bough.

loving you, the way i did,

the way i still do,

was as much unbecoming as it was becoming,

becoming as unbecoming.