Eden

Sometimes I daydream of a love like fruit. A love so sweet I can't help but smile. Moan as the juices run down, and across my tongue. A healthy love. A fulfilling one. A patient love. One that is to be planted, nurtured, watered until it blooms. Slowly but surely. An open love. A love free of judgment but full of understanding. One of nature's imperfect and unapologetic creations. A love that is courted by the wind. Encouraged by the sun. Admired by the moon. A simple one. Molded by the innocence of our intentions. Only to be contradicted and cracked with the sound of our internal monologues, solely written out of fear. An honest love. One that swells your tongue. A sour fruit unexpectedly expanding the pallet you were once familiar with. A pallet poisoned by pesticides. It starts as an acquired taste. Fermented into a delicate, sacred texture. Not a pallet that you want, but now a pallet that you need. Adults eat fruit. These fruits come to fruition, and you find yourself enchanted into a dance. You are fluent in a language of comfort, reciprocating reassurance. Indulging in your vines of grape, yet generous with your wine. High quality fruit given space and time to ripen and fine. Not the kind that one forcefully obtains or finds. Quality that keeps a steady pace in faith. The bees will carry it's seeds. To plant a tree that grows gracefully, full of fruit that is yours and mine.