The Peeling of a Pomegranate

I’m not sure when it started.
When I started to think about
how little I knew of you.

Pomegranate is my favorite fruit.
I don’t eat it often; they are a mess to peel.
But for you I would peel a hundred.
I don’t even know if you like pomegranates.
Come to think of it, I don’t know what your favorite fruit is
to begin with.

But I would dance around the house
and stain every white article of fabric I own,
I would hesitate to wash the droplets of juice that accumulated
on the lenses of my glasses in the sink,
I would enjoy wiping away the small crime scene
of what remained of the tedious fruit off the counter.

My stained fingertips would be my favorite though.
The way the evidence of my love lingers.

I would say, “I love you.”
And you would respond the way you always do.

Eventually, however, the pink syrup would fade from my skin,
much like you did.
Once there,
less time than I had imagined,
then gone.
Much like the repercussions
of the peeling of a pomegranate.

Biography:

Hi I’m Lee! I write poetry sometimes and sometimes it turns out alright. Thank you for reading!