Stone Fruit
after Cal Ridley

– Wolfram

You tasted of summer peaches.
You smelt of cold bookstores;
of gin and ironed trousers;
of fire and petrichor.

It’s more than deleting your number:
it’s now this exhaustion of your memory.
Of fingers tracing into my back.
Of you whispering into my ear.

Almost,’ you’d whispered.

I’d hoped we’d love until
I’d had the candle snuffed,
and so I burnt my fingers
and snuffed the match instead.

To fill a glass of gin
and split a peach in half;
to press it to your mouth
and pull it to my mouth.