the straw in my berry

i noticed your oaken arms first—
though if you'd wrap them around me,
i'm afraid i would sink into fruity oblivion

sad to say, it's a sour attraction;
now's not the ripe time
the seeds on my skin have yet to grow
i am but a red dot in this vast garden

then again, maybe it will never be you
i probably wouldn't need your old, oaken arms
perhaps i should search for straw instead.