Wedge

I am sitting alone in a room of my own.

In this basement. In the bottom of this house.

Eating the navel orange you gave me.

Its fragrance permeates.

The pith is under my fingernails.

Juice drips down to my wrist, elsewhere, too.

To my chin.

I’m peeling apart the wedges and

taking each one in two slow bites.

Tonguing the wet flesh and thinking of you.

Yours.  Firm rind. The sound of the juice

in my mouth, swallowing.

This is not about the orange.

This is not about the process of scraping

away the rind or about separating

the segments.

This is about desire.

This is about the halting pace of a long reveal.

Two souls reaching

for each other.

Sneaking side glances,

trying not to show

too much.

Not yet.

All in good time.

There is no room for wanting.

Not.

Yet.

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