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."