I wish that I could take and hold you in my hand, curl you up within my palm. I would, if possible, take and sew you then into my pocket, careful stitches placed in neat rows, that I could take you with me wherever I went. A reassuring lump resting there against my breast, you would sound like my heartbeat and smell like home and comfort. And at night I would rest my head upon you and listen to your dreams.

Or if you were a nectarine growing on that branch which reaches out over the road, I would pass by every day to see you as you are. I would, if possible, stroke your flesh with deft fingers, feeling how taut and ready you’d become until at last stretching forth my hand and plucking you down. I would rub you on my cheek and inhale your scent before taking my first bite, your sticky sweet juices running down my chin.

Instead you are my quill. Day and night I lift you in my hand and dip you into my inkwell (or is it my heart?) Scratching out flowing lines across the parchment, dipping your nib into my inky depths again and again. Loops and lines spilling forth, drops and splatters. Until I’m not sure if it’s really ink or blood, for you placed it there.

Yes, my love. You are my heart. You are my sustenance. You are my reason.

©️tara caribou – 2018

33 thoughts on “Nectarine

  1. I can only answer such an amazing and well written poem with a short poem for you.

    Sweet natures bed to lay my head,
    to draw each breath upon your chest.
    What springtime joy could tame this boy,
    and find this weary soul a rest.

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Oh golly. I love to come back here from time to time. I like to read this poem through and just sit with it awhile. just to enjoy that swell in my chest, the racing of my heart and other such sensations as well.
    Just to abide in this gorgeous feeling, and be somewhere wonderful inside myself.
    I especially love to read that second verse over and just let myself glow.
    But I have to confess I always put a thought from my mind, not allowing it until just before I go.
    I wonder why this poem is tagged depression. The confessional part being that I ignore that knowledge while I’m reading.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. It’s tagged depression because well I was very low when I wrote it and it’s all wishful thinking, right? I don’t have someone to hold me though I desire it greatly. It may be self-induced exile, but it’s exile nonetheless.

      But I am so glad you are touched by this. It’s one of my favorites that I’ve written. Most I’m not very happy with but this one I mostly am.

      Liked by 1 person

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