they are
less oranges
more apples

I crave to say
hey
birds of feather
flock together

his life
is meant to be
an open book
the recipe
for every day
she plans to kill
or cook

there are
no stitches
on his heart
but pierced through
chambers
the little words
her cords
and charts
he tries so hard
to keep them
bended
like paper staples
to remember
to pay
her way

although
you know

when
their time
is girt

he likes
to squeeze
a glass of sun
from oranges
and let her
flirt

she peels
her Eden
off the Apple
calls off
the dogs
takes off
her togs
and then
sweet-talks
about the birds
and bees

an hour straight
they
neck
and jazz
the way
no Adam
knew
his Eve
then wait
for more
to love
and kiss

she is
indeed
the apple
of his eye
the spoiled one
the only one
despite...

22 February 2012