Every surfer must fall everyday before they can tame the waves.

She stands at the edge of the grove,
barefoot in the soft, damp earth.
The sky has darkened, an ink-stained veil,
and the air is heavy with whispers
of things not yet spoken.

He steps from the shadows,
the pomegranate cradled in his hand,
as if it were a heart still beating.
Its skin glints like polished blood,
each curve a promise she does not understand.

He smiles—not with his mouth, but his eyes,
the kind of smile that unravels secrets.
He holds out the fruit, the distance between them
as thin as a thread pulled taut.
“Try it,” he says. “It’s sweet as summer rain.”

She hesitates, her fingers trembling
above its smooth, red skin,
caught between the impulse to reach,
to know, to taste—and the warning,
some echo of a voice she barely remembers.

“Just a taste,” he breathes,
and his voice is the rustle of leaves,
the call of something deeper than words.
She presses her thumb into the fruit,
and it yields, a dark, red river
running down her wrist.

He watches as she lifts the seeds
to her mouth, her lips stained
in a shade she’s never worn before.
The burst of juice, sharp and sweet,
washes over her tongue—a flood, a fever.

And she feels it then, the shift—
the earth beneath her is no longer soft,
but hard and cold, like stone.
The taste of the pomegranate lingers,
the sweetness turning to ash,
something bitter lodged in her throat.

He steps closer, his hand on her cheek,
a gesture almost tender.
“You wanted this,” he says,
and she knows he’s right, though she cannot say why.

The grove is silent, the night deepening,
the stars like distant eyes watching.
She looks at him, and then at the empty husk
in her hand, the seeds scattered at her feet
like drops of blood on snow.

She does not speak.
There is nothing left to say.
Only the taste, the lingering memory
of sweetness, and the slow, heavy beat
of something lost.