fruit on the table,

a still life? maybe.

that won't stop us from eating it,

flecks of skin on my lips,

juice leaking out of the corner.
your teeth overestimate,

spraying me with spittle and

sweet, sweet nectarine sap.
pull the tablecloth over,

the mess is already made,
soak in the flowers,

and swallow me

in the electric fruit of your breath.