Lying under the plum tree
Buds, ripening like dew in April air
You make plum trees blossom
In the dead of winter
Vigor and bronze.

Apricots on my nightstand
Sun invading my sage linen sheets
My naked body, bare
Hands, against my olive skin
Rest your head on my shoulder
My promenade collarbones
Evoke in my femininity.

Now, you leave me
Broken under the blazing sun,
Feverish eyes and dilated pupils
You are,
Pit of the plum.
Fetal.