PEACH PIT

Dear benevolent Stranger, 

Finding bits of you is like picking at the wholesome home

of some longing soul laid bare and dripping, the cancer can be found in the details.

Finding bits of you is like digging into flesh and gnashing

skins of baby apple and the peach pit, hard in your eyes, but between your teeth.

(Loneliness says hello and glows with spectral charisma.)

Finding bits of you is like stuttering on nothing. Painful. Jagged. 

Finding bits of you is like finding words to describe this prevalent fear, words that appear so listlessly on paper

and in my agenda as if I assigned them,

like trying to crush peach pits when my hands are enveloped in the frailties of the Earth,

and yet you wonder

yet I wonder

why your benevolence is so hard to find.