Beauty doesn’t last, even if we do, the grape to raisin, the
plum to prune; we embrace middle age with no choice, what was once moist turns
dry, what was once sweet, sour, and we must accept the fact that we cannot
last, even when we do.
If love is what we cherish, it is not the plum we seek, but
something deeper into which we fit, a hand into a glove, this must be enough.
Time teases us, letting sweetness linger on the tip of tongue
until we must bite into the skin of plum, or grape, or apple to learn what was
promised may no longer be true, not sour so much as something new, as love
becomes something different, maybe riper, the way the grape with age becomes
fine wine that indeed may last through time.
Love inebriates us in such a way, we have no care for what
it weas once, plump or sweet, as long as it is what it is now.
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