I don't have demons
I only have lovers and exes
I only have conversations that aren't ripe yet.
When we stood breaking up,
We bit into the tenderness of the first peach of the season
Learning about fruiting bodies became a life long practice
Letting go became the penultimate gesture of love.
When I sat at the wheel, gazing out the rearview
I thought that because I could only see things there
I must have missed them before
But that's not how our bodies fruit.
When we said all break ups are a good thing
What we meant is that our labor was only edible right as it left the vine
That to consume the end, we ate the fruit.
Distance yields to anger, yields to sadness, yields to softness.
I want to soften next to you, don't want to demonize you.
This isn't a poem, it's a truce.