Pulping purple

Hooking the black cherry flesh from our teeth
we sat under slate grey trees and gave up smoking.

He asked me what I could see from my height,
sliding his wrist into the cleft of my knees
and holding them like a branch.

We talked about the plates piling
up from someone else's meal
how to build a house on a bridge and dance at nothing.

I saved two years to remember
the twisted cornea of a cherry stone staring,
the sore throat I got from laughing,

my heart,
a pulping purple castle.