Food and love. They go together. And I am not just talking whipped cream. Both primal, both wonderful, both pleasures we hate to lose.
And the tomato. In Italian “pomodoro”: apple of love.
The loneliness of being with you
cuts through my soul
like a French chef’s knife
through a plump, ripe, Roma.
Round, juicy, slices of my being
are tossed into the salad of
Drizzled with a little olive oil.
Had you just let it grow on the vine
Watered it. Fed it. Weeded around it.
It would eventually have fallen,
naturally and fully-ripened,
into your lap.