even
hold my hand in public but
said my name, first and middle, echoing it around our bed as if daring me to look him in the eyes. Swaddled me in beargolve spice, unstitched the painstakingly-put seams in my lungs while i slept, cut off fingertips once mine and rooted them to the fertile country of his gums.

I knew I'd never love him but
      tried to grab for the lining of his esophagus or the old-time winds in his eyes. I'd always miss, so I guess that makes me the lemon.