We ate pomegranates on the balcony, covered in its fuchsia juice.
I watched you crack open the shell and set the liquid free to slowly wander down your wrist. And I followed the trail up your arm to your eyes, crinkled from the smoke of the spliff held between your lips. And you mumbled about the mess.
What a mess.
What a mess we were making. We didn’t even know it then.
What a mess we made. Are you surprised we were capable of a catastrophe?
What a mess we made unbeknownst to the pomegranate lake of fuchsia juice. I wonder if your sock still carries the dye.