Angel with an Apple
You stand before me,
Lips as red as the apple held in your hand,
You offer it to the man next to you,
His laughter, loud, brash, like a donkey -
Hurts my ears. But I don't cover them
Instead I listen out for yours, hidden, but freed when he finally quietens.
Sweet and low. A salve for my senses.
Like the honey of your hair -
You don't offer it to me when he declines,
Instead you smile, and take a big bite yourself, exposing the pale flesh inside.
Juice drips from the corner of your mouth like liquid gold -
You turn away, your hair flying about, a momentary halo, and under the cloth of your dress,
I swear I can see the folds of feathery wings.
Later, I take a hesitant bite of the sweet fruit I buy on impulse, fallen from the stall,
Rejected but still shining, and think of you.
Of your red lips...