The knife was a mere formality, your soft fingers which I gave love to when the sun first broke force themselves through the skin, its beautiful secret now exposed to the world. There was a hint of a smile on your face which reminded me to do the same— you told me only an hour or two before that I always looked upset. I didn’t say anything, but I wish I could’ve told you that I was like the pomegranate: a creature of rough exterior begging to let its vulnerability smother you.

You tore off a section or two for me, never minding that I never ate a pomegranate before. My consumption formal, afraid of staining the linen tablecloth of the table which I only last night excused myself from, puking out my nerves in front of pictures of Hebraic tongues that I was less familiar compared to your sign of the covenant, before returning to your parents. Shy, intelligent, polite— a non-threatening boyfriend for their son.

You, on the other hand, seemed to not notice this. You consumed the seeds as if they were your last meal, as if you let your hands remain still for even a moment you will realize the disastrous effects of desire.

On your bed your tongue found its way to mine, your mouth a taste of sweetness and cheap Thai food that I urged you not to eat lest we spoil our eager passions. I took in the contours of your mouth, a place you will reject me from entering only a week later before accepting the unspeakable place as a better location for my tongue. I knew that I tasted of you but you did not taste of me.

We entered our natural positions, I on top and you on bottom, you leading me to the unspoken edges. Everything was orchestrated by you; I knew better than to lead the unveiling (as you so often wanted me to do) or else it would spoil in the oxygenated air. Somehow your touch managed to make all things stable, pure, unchanging. As if the ariels themselves chose their destiny, pushing for its consumption against its hardness at the mercy of the human.

Your pleasure was satisfied and mine not, but to finish was to reveal myself and thus to reveal the disgusting mess that I am. I wanted to sleep but you told me it would be best for me to leave early, in between mouthfuls of snacks that I was too nervous to ask for. To avoid the embarrassment of rejection (or worse: the feeling of being a means to an end), I pretended that that was originally my idea; I had work the next day and I’m not that sociable and that we will always see each other again.

You drove me home. As I stepped out I asked for a kiss which you gave after some hesitancy. I did not know this at the time, but you would not profess any romantic sentiment to me after this.

At home I ate another pomegranate. I cleaved it with my hands, devoured, redness trickling down my hands and chin, and thought of you. Only you.