You press me

smooth

against

your mouth;

my nectar

sliding

down

your chin

and neck

as you break

through

my tight

membrane of skin.

You split

me in half

revealing

my dense

spongy innards,

my fruit

bleeding

onto your tongue

as you crush

my seeds

with your jaw.

You hold me

firm and solid,

your mouth

filling

with pulp

and juice

as I linger,

tart,

upon your palate.

I painted

a cobalt line

across his chest, and he,

a maroon circle on my back;

we did not rinse

our brushes.

I stretched

canvas from his

femurs to his ulnas,

and as he dug

his chisel into

my clavicle,

I mixed

paint in his eyes

while he stippled

the hollows

of my cheeks:

neither of us

followed

the thumbnails

we sketched.

At night we each

held the other down

and gessoed over

poorly-drawn

impressions,

but flecks

and smudges

of charcoal,

oils and acrylics—

notches and chips—

remained, permanently,

in the fibers

of our figures.

I will leave you slowly,

remove my skin

from yours,

vacate the bed

with such stillness that

my impression disappears

before I am fully gone.

My hands will retain

the presence

of your skin,

the curve

of sinuous muscles,

while the gossamer threads

binding your core to mine

silently pull

and snap.