Pulp

Consider the orange peel.

   Allow its scent to remind you 

that you are of the

same soil.

You cannot be rotten.

You are fragrant, mouthwatering,

and yet it is what’s inside, 

pulp and all,

that I love.

I indulge in every slice

and let the juice drip down my chin,

wipe it with the back of my hand,

and leave a sticky you-scented

    residue on my skin.

You are always this close,

scent penetrating my pores

until loving you becomes

a state of being

until loving you becomes

loving me.