life tasted sweet
under your eyelashes,
******* strawberry-flavored flowers,
and spitting out the seeds
which would eventually grow into
humble spite.

when the ground was bare,
and the atmosphere was intact,
my eyes never left your fingers
and my sharp friend never forgot
the taste of my strawberry wrists.

addicting
promising
bittersweet in the sense
that you tend to forget
that my fate is my gold
hence,
it is time to work.
it is time to get old.

we are never going back under this tree again.
(aren't we?)

for it is the calling.
it is time to speak with the tongue of love -
for myself.
no longer pink
from the strawberries.

i want to look loud,
i want the flavor of the world beyond.
i want to **** the clouds until they
gravitate back to earth.
i want to be satisfied,
not full.