You sliced an apple.
Tossing the core,
your left hand perfected the angle
to dead center of the bin
wherein the red skin
lay with some white underside exposed.
I noticed your head,
twisted to the left upon your neck,
your blond hair briefly moving
and your lifted right hand
enclosed upon the handle of the paring knife.

You arranged the eighths to suit you
on a pink glass plate,
drew a chair from beneath your table.
Remembering the peanut butter
you returned to the cupboard.
Reaching up, your heals lifted from the floor.
Your calves tensed, toes bent,
you appeared to be aware my gaze.
You rolled me a smile with your eyes.

You smell of peanut butter and apple,
as you hold me now.