On that warm summer day,
at the farmer’s market,
I held your left hand,
and with the other.
You handed me an apricot.
Its skin was surrounded with
fuzz. An odd texture,
that reminded me of petting a hairless cat.
So instead I reached for a pear;
causing your fingers to slip out of my grasp.
“A pear in July?”
I offered you a slice,
and was met with a monologue of your hatred of pears;
calling it the most disappointing pome fruit,
You criticized its shape and color,
“a weak impersonation of an apple”
So I picked up the apricot and cut it to share.
giving you three slices and keeping one. Then,
Forced myself to enjoy its goo
Forced myself to love
its mushy substance.
Then the trees began to lose their leaves
and the apricots went with them.
I guess I should be happy
that October has surrounded me with pears,
but the only person to share with
is a random green-eyed stranger.
Whose name I cannot remember.
Now when I hold the stranger’s hand
at the farmer’s market,
I search for you in the crowd, hoping
that amongst all piles of pears,
an extra apricot is hidden, so
we can share.