when you leave i don’t watch you go, when you leave i walk across a bridge in a cold city, when you leave i look at my kitchen and the food you left behind, i make a mental list, five kiwis, a tin of herring, a little block of goats cheese, rice cakes, half a packet of feta cheese, a jar of coffee, i eat two of your kiwis and think of all the fruits you have made me try for the first time; peaches, pineapple, kiwi
peaches; we were 18 and 19, we were in my hometown, it was july, i was skinnier, i was wearing blue jeans cut up to my knees and a red tank top that was altered to show off the tattoo on my stomach, old black converse, my then short hair was in a ponytail, we bought a miniature bottle of champagne and drank it by the tower in my town, we only knew each other for eight months, i was a virgin. you had long curly hair, a softer jaw, you were muscular in a way i had never seen or been close to before, all the boys before you were chubby or skinny, i never knew this kind of body, i was proud of you in a very instinctive way. we went to another supermarket where you bought a tray of peaches, we walked to a nearby park which was full of hostile young boys, we sat near a tree, you offered me the fruit, i said ‘i never tasted peaches before’, you put it in my hand, the grass was warm under my back, i bit into it, i liked it, you spread your arm from where you were lying in the shade under a tree, it passed through the shadow and into the sunlight where i was lying, you touched your fingertips off mine
pineapple; we were 19 and 20 and we stood in the kitchen where we lived together, i can’t remember what i was wearing, or how either of us looked then, i just remember it was dark and that depressing yellow light in that depressing yellow kitchen was on, i was unhappy in a way i never had been before, my whole body was tense day and night from the pressure of it, i had no job, no school, i lived with you rent free. you cut the pineapple’s skin off and cut the...
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