he digs his thumb into the hollow of my foot
and kneads at the bones
as if my skin will yield fruits
I laugh at it all just to make him smile
(a tender sight, like fingers winding up an apple tree’s bark)
as I mumble nonsense French phrases to a language app
between the glow of life
and a half-forgotten phone screen
(my attention lingers there, in the crinkle under his eye)
he presses inside the layers of me
until the language of love is caught deep
in the fruits that laughter reaps