apple picking

how did you know?
how could you have possibly seen my lips in such a shade of red, years ahead of our lips departing? the hopeless romantic with blue hair and torn vans wrote everything down. he wrote stories of love and loss and of an endless search for our souls' true partners. he played every chord with purpose and direction, though i didn't see it back then, nor do i think he did either.

i hope your dreams have continued to manifest themselves in truth. i hope you know the extent of such claims and poems; of such beautifully written passages and chords.

[can you write out salvation, sweet love?]

he used to write about an apple tree standing tall and alone. about my shoes that matched the color of the fruit and my lips the color of the juiciest of them all; but I hadn't even started painting my lips yet.
he wrote of bruises and fruit with damaged skin. words of dissatisfaction and disinterest in what was already fallen or within a hand's reach. of the need to find an apple the color of my lips.

well they're indeed red now, sweet boy. and i have climbed in search of that very apple with an almost complete disregard to my fear of heights. i have fallen abruptly but not at all how i imagined. my mouth drips with sweet fruit juice and my hands and chest remain sticky with love and joy. my heart calls out and continuously gets answered and met with love. from here, i'll pick up the writing.