My love is like a tangerine

This past week has been a whirlwind of old friends and writing. Lots of writing. I'm happy to present a recent piece written in the midst of it all. Enjoy!

It has come to my attention, that the sixth letter of the alphabet is missing on mobile devices as well as some browsers. I can't seem to fix the problem. Just know, for now, that I know how to spell. Sorry!


My love is like a tangerine. That pucker faced sour and sweet, ripped from the tree, the darkest orange you’ll ever know. 

We are tied like the braid in a horses tail, platted like his mane. Our sandals kick up manure and the heat is waves of glass radiating from the ground. I sip my beer and look at you. A perpetual flora to my grizzled fauna. A sunbeam in brunette.

The dust clogs up my lungs and the smell my nose, and when you grab my hand the taste of it fills my mouth. You pull me along windy trails, I pull you toward the ocean. We are the amber bubbles in my beer, constantly following one another up.

I look up and I think, you must be the sky that’s blue, and I’m the cloud that’s gray. Some people think the cloud makes the sky more beautiful, but not everyone does. 

You sip from my aching beer, and I sip from you. I am the sweet sting of tangerine on your lips and you are the yeast on my tongue. I tell you about the sky and the clouds. I tell you that not everything makes the sky more beautiful. Planes don’t, I say. Cars. Satellites. But clouds. They do.

We are the bow that hangs over the altar. You are the flowers, and I am the leaves. Some people think the green makes the flowers more beautiful, but not everyone does.

You are the twisted knobs of a tree and I am the breeze. You are the creamy expanse of field, and I am the gnarled fence, snaking its way through. You are the rain dripping down the window, and I am the shower steam condensing on the walls. I am the sweet sting of beer on your lips, and you, my love, you are the fizz of tangerine on my tongue.