All Favourite Fruit, II

Fruit is seasonal, as we all know.

Apples are fall: Warm and mixed with cinnamon and sugar. Strawberries are summer: they explode with memories of picnics and fireworks. Cherries are spring: sweet and blood red, you spell your name with their juice on your exposed inner thigh.

i feel very proustian today. Everything feels like an avenue of steps towards a memory i planned to forget.

He tastes like winter fruits. He’s warm in bed, and he reminds me of apples with cinnamon and sugar. Sometimes, when he’s darker, he tastes like  mulled cider with brandy.

There is nothing better, sometimes,  than to lay by this side with his smell penatrating my pillows and sheets and my very skin. His lovely odor seeping into my memory cells as his seed, like molasses, finds its way from between my legs. And this reminds me of red apples baked with sugar and butter and served to me on cold nights.

And like winter fruit, he seems to slowly dissapate from my room. In timed motions he kisses me and floats to the door on the zypher of the season we created, the one yet to be named.

And i like it. i don’t mind his leaving, because, like the season, he returns. And be it a long drought-riddled summer, or a small heatwave, i survive the lack of that delicious fruit and savour it more in it’s absence.

Then he’s back, like the first whiff of baking cinnamon. Like the first burning sip of the mulled cider. And like the winter cold and warmed sugar, he slips into me like sweetened fruit. And it feels right.

This kind of thing, it’s seasonal. i know it wasn’t meant to last, but like dark winter days i refuse to waste, i bury myself into him and let his light aroma fall into my hair and remind me of winters to come.