Tangerines

Winter brings you back.
You arrive in crates at the market,
stacked high,
glowing under dim, sickly light.

Your scent cuts through the cold —
sharp, honeyed, familiar.
I know you before I see you.

I will peel you slowly,
worshipfully.
Your rind gives way under my fingers,
pith clinging in stubborn threads.

I let your scent sink into my skin,
knowing it will stay
longer than you ever do.

I know I can never have you whole.

You exist only in pieces —
segments pressed to my tongue,
sugar dissolved too quickly.

I take what I am given.

One segment at a time.

Careful.

Savoring.

Hands sticky with sugar,
mouth aching for more,
I pretend one piece is enough.

By spring,
you'll be gone.

My tongue tingling,
remembering the ghost of you.

My hands will try to reach
for what has ripened.

I peel.

Swallow.

This new fruit,
its sweetness
doesn't linger
beneath my nails.

I learn you best
in the aftermath.

Now,

I press a fresh segment
to my lips,
already mourning.

You were always destined
to come apart in my hands —
something I could covet,
but never keep.

I search for you
in places
you will not be.

I remember you
more vividly
than what stays.

If this is sin,

this wanting only in pieces,
this choosing what cannot be —

Forgive me.

I will keep
licking the peel.