I dream of it the night before – fracturing across the mirror and diffusing the light. That morning barefoot I secret the globes away to breathe inside of paper bags, to ripen under force, their skin splitting the seeds half-formed.
III. How could you have existed here with my life already so full? The fragrant soups, the wildflowers, the slivered moons and the cigar tree flowering always. Perhaps I could have used another set of hands to cradle the tomatoes this past season, but then I would not have known the abundance nor the solitude. And the wine would not have tasted so bitter and rich without the loss of you.
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