Photo by Aslı Yaren Peker on Unsplash
Navy juices bloom atop my fingerprint.
The ghosts of blackberries, small seeds bursting through their tender casements,
Trace invisible minutiae,
Wild drupelets rupturing with ripeness.
This is how we pick our fruits:
Sometimes sweetly stowed away, and sometimes stained.
I lick my fingertips; the purple shadow
Still remains.
About the Creator
Harbor Cecille
I carry a piece of the things that I love wherever I go. I love short fiction, chocolate ganache, forensic science, and, aptly, the water.
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