Some Water

I fed you
Italian pasta with sun-dried tomatoes and Parmesan cheese
Because the past 19 months have felt
Like you stuck a fork in me
And twirled it.
You are like cutting through sweet fig fruit with stained fingers -
Expecting a seed that is, pleasantly, absent.
And I swear I can smell garlic sautéing when you're thinking.
You, spilling yourself onto me like lemonade,
Running smoothly over my ice cube smile.
What am I supposed to do now after letting both our bellies swell
In comfortable happiness?

You said once that some water tastes better than other water and that's how I knew you understood me - you'd have to notice my thoughts the same way as they drip like subtle condensation from my glass exterior. Truly what you deserve is expensive wine. So I wish I came with a lemon slice or a sprig of mint or a salted rim. I'm sorry I was so filtered back then.

But we grew, like a gourd on the vine. The meat of our conversations was flecked with wonder and strength and a courageous leap into our future together. The spices tasted of ancient families and wrinkled fingers and burlap. These promises, like bell peppers, taste so good but are mostly empty space, I feared.

Lately it's been tasting like the vegetarian version.
Substitutions of you
Won't do.
I'm no baker but I find myself sticking a diagnostic toothpick into us more and more just to test if we're...

And then:
Like butter.
You melt into my arms and you fill me
With your moscato musings and
I am helpless but to the buzz of us.
Us.
Somewhere in the expansive, weedy field,
Another gourd ripens.