The sun was setting, shining
her last eternal rays through the treetops.
Blackberries hung on the vine
thick, ripe, juicy
they stained our hands and lips.

We had carried strawberries. They were sweet
and ripe and good, like a burst of life
inside our mouths.
They did not stain, but left us spitting seeds.
And drinking lemonade under the cover of oaks.

Walking home, together. Teenagers passed us in cars
filled with laughing, shouting
a pounding backbeat. Thump-thump
like some eternal heartbeat
primal, reverberating, stained with curses, thump-fuck-thump.

The salmonberries were out.
Pale-pink clusters. We picked them all
and pretended they were our eyelids.
Ate great heaping handfuls.
Tossing them up and catching them in our mouths.

It was an accident.
I tripped, and
landed on your lips.
As the sun picked out the blonde in your hair
you kissed back.

You tasted of salmonberries
and the mango-peach lip balm that you loved.
I smiled, and you
leaned in again, this time no accident.
You tasted like sunset.