At the end, orange for you was a color.
Orange for me was a fruit.
We shared a common language
but didn't understand the words.
At the beginning, words didn’t matter.
We were orange juice and vodka,
a heady mix of love and lust,
a hope for haven.
I hurt you before the end.
I squeezed oranges into the wound
neither of us saw, but sensed,
blood juice of the fruit.
After over 30 years,
I’m still sorry.
So sorry.
inspired by Tiana Clark’s “Proof:”
published on The Interstitial
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