Jack, Rose, Coffee

You had a tiny, silent
plate for a pear. Clean-white
as if from a tooth
at sea, dried in salt and sunlight.

Then you sliced the sweetest
one you kept in darkness
days
on days.
For only yourself you would have
bit too soon,
told yourself that ripeness
was not all.
But you could hold it from another,
almost hurtful
in witholding,
to serve a better fruit to a beloved.

Funny, love. It's a blending
of sources. Indeed
the throat can swallow
fire, the skin give way
to a noise of metal.
Both whisper away at the
sculpture of pure relation.
It is finally taking shape.

You, waiting,
waiting now as if born this way,
for the footsteps to appear.
Admit you might hear them first
and turn and spill yourself
into eyes, saving nothing,
even less
if you can.