In Which I Compare Love To

It is like the skin of a cucumber,
the odd breeze I feel when I say cascara
when I only mean orange peel.

A blonde hair left on the floor--
this will hopefully be a flower
and, on the off-chance, a wire tap,
a means to read the bumps on my head.

On the table: two apples, a small juice box, and a thick spread
of soft, longing smiles.