The Long Nights of Quarantine

The Taste

I bite the plum.

A sour chill trembles over my teeth,

Oozing like blood over my tongue.

I swallow.

It is a taste of you,

Lost in my diamond-ring doom,

As your aching feet

Find the scars

Of a new reality.

It remains--

It's the first coin in the hour's hand.

It's the final nail in the coffin,

Forever engulfed in your

Dying heart.