my darling clementine.

my darling clementine left too many seeds to spit; they fell from my hands to the floor and grew into a beautiful simulacrum of what a tree should be. i didn't believe in love but it never mattered before now.
the fruit malingered in the spring and love never grew until the cold months of winter when coitus becomes quotidian in order to keep from shaking into slumbers left for lovers and the dead.
"he who is drowned is not troubled by the rain."