i build a nest in a roughness of palms, unbutton my blouse to you, hand you back the sullied fruit. you take the pitted side in your left palm, push aside folds of soiled flesh, trace asymmetry with your forefinger and wait for me. i hand you a needle, insist you rejoin them, insist that the sutures be visible on the outside despite your talent at anonymity.
he finds it later.
an apology: i refuse it. he sucks at the drippings, whiskers brimming with sticky rouge.
and you: the last pair of hidden rusting scissors. your handiwork lingers in his morning breath; i wait for your retrieval.