When it’s time, a book will open its skin—
gently as a leaf along the spine.
It will ask for all our eyes—
hoping to be seen undone.
I’d hoped we’d be willing to be read.
But it takes more than a hope to hold your eyes.
We seem to be here but our seams are all sealed up tight.
Maybe we were too green when we came into loving that night.
When it’s ripe, a fruit will fall from its sill—
bursting bright and red across the floor.
It will take away our will,
and anything that kept us in our skins.
I thought we would carry this around.
But it takes too much attention to keep us along.
If we were ripe, we would burst from the sill.
And there would be no labor to being loved.
I would feel you with me.
And I’d just close my eyes, undone.
Willing to be seen, undone.
Hoping to be seen, undone.
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