He had suddenly spoken that day-
Gaze fixed at the cup of ice cream in his hand,
As his other hand caressed my hair,
In the gentle coolness of October air-
That whenever he saw half-melted, half-scooped out
Strawberry- soft, thick, flowing, pink,
He would always think,
That when a spoon would run over,
Its smoothness to subtly scrape,
How sensuously it would fall like a poem,
In graceful curve, in rhythmic shape.
"And over the cold, ragged edges that remain,
I run my fingers", he said,
"And I get that feeling- you know?-
When you rub your palm against red velvet?
Yes, that!"

I nodded, feigning understanding, but oh!
How there could be poetry in strawberry,
I had not the slightest clue,
Until he smeared some with his fingers,
And slowly kissed it off my lips.
Then, I knew.