You slow-bowled an orange across the room,
I stopped it with my foot. You watched as I peeled,
separating the half-suns, pinching away the pith.
You came for the crescent between my teeth; your bite
sprayed juice across our faces. You licked stickiness
from nose, eyelids, chin, holding my wrists as I resisted.
All so long ago. Now your moon waxes and wanes
at different times from mine. When you sleep, I rise.
Always how it was, never quite in time.
But, whenever the sweetness and freshness of an orange
finds me unexpectedly, I freeze and try not to blink
as you cross the room, take my hand, and kneel.