A nectarine

I ate a nectarine last night 
when crouching on the kitchen tiles.
It likely was (it must’ve been), 
the sweetest thing around for miles.

Its perfect shape, the gentle curve
of cradled arms and opened lips.
The smell of it intoxicates!
My very own apocalypse.

To be so drunk and all alone —
No, wait! — I had my nectarine.
So not alone: I had my gift
of nectar sweet and fresh and clean. 

And what a fruit, I have to say,
I’ll never find an equal piece.
And it was mine! Yes, mine alone. 
I ate it with such sweet release. 

So do not ask me to regret
my holy act in kitchen light.
You questioned why I did not call,
forgive me, dear, I will not fight. 

I was busy, late last night.
And you are not a nectarine.

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