He chose to sit out in the rain
while I wandered into the rinds of a lemon,
dipping my fingers into rinses
from the feeble insides of a soft sun.
Some wetness bit into
spongey openings of a broken rind
and like acid clinging to an epidermis,
I let it soak in me.
I wait for him,
my love stripped back
like sun-kissed lemon skin
but he chooses to forget the unimportant things like
whether or not we kissed
or if his eyes were cloudy when the lemon cut my skin.
We are not ready for a night like this-
drunk, in love and afraid.
Swearing by a pedestal
that we should die before we leave.
He begs me
to come out,
but all I can give him
is an excuse not to be lonely.
Quietly,
the last time I needed him
was the only time I wanted him;
waiting outside my lemon house.
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