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Perspective: Fruit

The way it touches my lips.

The way it presses against my tongue.

The way it feels when it goes in.

The way it gives me the light.

The truth is, it reminds me of you.

It is.

It is my God, my love, my life, my friend, my sacrifice.

It is all that I am from, and everything I will be.

It is my provider, my care, my sight.

In every fiber of this, I crave, I honor, I truly love.

When you kiss me, is it like this?

Do you crave how it feels to be in?

My source?

My God, my love, my friend, a sacrifice?

The little death at the cost of the potential to live within.

The way you kiss me.

Is it your way a filling up?

Giving and getting a taste of all that is in and around?

The sense of urgency tells me that you truly need to give or that you're desperate to take.

Is it to harvest or to become?

Am I my own or yours?

Are you to become me from within or me on your own accord?

This exchange is so complex because of its mutual sacrifice.

To lure in, to praise, attach with, to consume.

This practice of love as a word, an action.

As a song and dance.

It is one that is necessary.

To become my source, to become my love, I must then become yours.

So then who are we really, when there is an end?

Who is the owner, who is the slave?

Who has the sight?

Who has the sight.

Which one of us wins?

It only goes wrong if you choose another.

So many choices of fruit.

When you use up all that was in one, you adore just the thought of another.

The sight of another.

You play the same game, the same practice of love on the same other.

Over and over.

Is it fun anymore?

To win, and take all that was given to you, from you and from every other?

I am in every fruit.

The little death is suicide and sacrifice and insurance and immortality.

When the death is laid into something that is consumed within yourself, where do you go? Lost and found in someone else, in something else, over and over again.

Are you your own God, or your own slave?

Your friend, your love?

Is this the game?

Falling in love with me to find yourself.

To love yourself again and to practice?

The little death, just to do it all over again?

Is it time.


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