Clementines fall from the trees
in your backyard where we collapsed
after working out together.
The first frost of the season injecting its sweetness
between the spongy white strings everyone hates.
You chased me down the stairs
and out the heavy wooden door that never locked quite right
trying to apologize without your parents hearing.
The air thick, visibility shrouded with grounded rain clouds
and yet void of a single word between us.
What do you even say after something like this?
Clementines freshly picked,
a pop of color in your mom’s kitchen
neatly sit in a bowl
that sits neatly between us.
What to think about this?
Doesn’t it fall neatly around?
The secret between us,
what it means,
what a mistake.
Clementine peels in my hands
and dead autumn leaves breaking beneath my shoes.
Running, jogging for exercise
until every leaf is broken
or we’re out of breath.
Running from and until we don’t know each other anymore,
until I can’t feel us or you or this irreparable sore.
Running until all I can feel is my blood pumping in my head
and that one drop of clementine juice on my chin.
Where am I again?
This is not my hometown where we met.
Clementine peels fall from my hands
onto the snowy ground beneath us.
Icy tears well up, clouding my vision.
Fingers and nose nearly frozen in this tiny mountain town
that was too small for you to begin with.
I hate the way you look at me.
What have we done?
Clementines and pumpkin bread in my bag,
finally heading home.
Fog covers the hills and I can barely see your house now.
I never should have come here.
