pomegranate

by iravati iyer

Her hands cradle the pomegranate as if it is the precious evolution she so longs for. It stains her fingers pink and she passes it to me. Look, she says, your lipstick matches. I hold the fruit between my traitorous fingers and watch her. I buy the pomegranate. Think of her perfume, lingering. In time, the pomegranate will rot. Her touch, too, will wither and die from its skin. Her perfume will fade from the air. There will be an emptiness where she stands. When she turns away, I press my lips to the space where her fingers touched it.  She’s not wearing any lipstick but I still say, So does yours. The clock ticks, always. I turn away too. 

~ love in a time of silence // pomegranate