She would hold my hand

and look at me.

Pearls in her eyes,

like mine.

I don't have her eyes,

hers are blue,

mine are green,

but I could see myself in hers,

a faint mirror image

like looking into a lake.

Pearls on her cheeks,

whiter than mine.

I have young cheeks,

still burning red,

reacting like a traffic light,

to everything new and exciting.

She said that changes,

when you're older.

We sat there,

mine hand in hers.

I don't have hands like that,

hers are long like pianists,

wrinkled and full of character,

interesting hands.

Mine are young and smooth,

like a dolls hands.

So small they disappeared,

when we held hands.

And so freezing cold,

I would take her hands,

just to steal a little warmth.

I get angry when sad,
cries like throwing darts.
I never really aimed,
hit only by mistake.

But with you,
you made me try
with you was knifes,
your body the apple.

I wanted to cleave,
your chest in two
halfs of an apple,
split like me.

See your clockhouse,
never cared for time,
promises are old seeds,
never coming up.

Now you're wrinkled.
Fallen from the tree,
kicked around by life,
but still the same.

Apples go bad,
faster when in two.
Turn back the years,
to safe us a little time.