it was a sunday morning, slow and heavy like amber honey, like a still sky pregnant with rain, waiting, waiting, waiting. she was sitiing on that grey couch, her left leg thrown over the armrest that you had spilled juice on four years ago, her chin cupped in her right hand, her smile bright and glistening like the pomegranate seeds you had scooped from between their structured arches of white pith. you spit out the third seed you had put in your mouth; it was soft and sour and tasted like guilt.
you stood up to take your bread from the toaster, and that's when she spoke. the words fell like a stone from her lips and rolled to a stop between your feet. you were wearing the socks she had knit for you. it occurred to you that to her, they must've flown from her mouth like a sparrow departing from a barren oak tree, as fleeting and effortless as a habit. i love you. you wanted to say it back.
you couldn't say it back.
you wanted to say it back. instead, you watch your door shut behind her as she leaves, watch the wind run its fingers through her hair in the way you never would again.
the taste of the pomegranate seed buries itself deep into your taste buds.