The fruit bowl is staring at me.
It's eyes are fat, sweet, mangos.
My mother keeps bringing them home for me.
A childhood favorite, she knows.
Something so tropical and sweet
can only remind me of you.
And the mango you plucked for me
ripe from it's tree by the shore.
And the loves you swore to me
juicy, sticky, dripping from your lips.
I haven't the hear to tell her
I have since lost the taste.
The flesh bitter and empty now
like the promises you made to me
their juices stain my mouth, clothing, fingertips.
Everything I have touched is sticky with them.
She tells me not to forget about them.
To eat them before they spoil.
I tell her "I won't forget,"
when what I mean to say is
"I can't."

In my arms you become an ocean
seeping into the topographic cracks of my body
pooling along the coasts of our separate skins.
I hold you as gently as a shell cups a pearl
and float upon the current of your breaths.
You become warm sand against my skin.
I want to kiss every grain of your form
and count its golden glints that catch light
like the still pools of your eyes-
the small brown island beneath your pupil
into which I have disappeared nightly (like the moon),
and emerged to see my own reflection
made more beautiful by your love (like the sun).
You are the paradise of my heart.
The sun and moon of my soul.
A window and a mirror
through which the world unfolds.