In Tehran,
you handed me chilled apricots—
their flesh spilling, rust-colored,
skin blushed with heat.
Nimble, they lodged between my thumb
and forefinger, as if I were
their queen, smelling of nectar
and damp earth.
You scooped the stones I would throw
into a bowl, laid each one
on a wooden board, cracked it
open with a single blow.
Then, you extracted the kernel
like a tooth with a fingernail, stripped
its sac to a seed. Oh, how I craved
the crunch, the acrid nut milk—
unveiled by the precision of your hand.
A hand, now frail, age-spotted,
too trembly to lift a glass,
too stiffened to reach my face.

These days, you no longer speak.
You mean to call my name—
a train derailing from its tracks.
So we blow each other kisses,
lay one palm over the heart,
gesturing love.
We leave the apricots
where they belong—
dangling from their boughs.
Spectral.
Half-born.