Honeyed sap rising in our skin,

mango sweet flesh over rind,

everything I had was yours,

and you in turn were mine.

Late summer plum oozing sickly,

at our ripest, we began to die.

Sun blushed, wind weathered,

over fallen fruit, Mother Nature won’t cry.

The quiet earth swallowed our words

with salt and grit.

Shards of bone and hair,

blood and spit.

The space between us was no longer space but ore:

copper and gold, precious metals we were.

We had burned bright, but that was before.

Harvested and mined, we saw ourselves in absence.

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