An accumulation of cinnamon

The bruised fruit I bought last week
remind me of how death must look
Moldy rinds loitering with gnats
in the orange bowl I keep filling
because I like the way it looks
on the counter by the fridge

(You never wanted a girl like me)

A girl who pulls the cinnamon
from the cupboard a thousand times
to wrap myself  in it's sharpness
but never makes the fruit salad
because I know a thing or two about
the importance of desire

How foolish of me to think a girl
(like me) could slice an apple
thin enough to make amends
more likely between us when
longing tangles itself in saffron
staining your harsh tongue