Crushed Strawberry

You opened your fingers
showed me
juice running in your lifeline
like blood.
Your hands always smelt of soap;
your sheets were clean
and you burnt citronella.
Your starfish arms
suckered to my skin
and you left me with a seasalt
aftertaste
coming up in waves for days.

A year on when we meet
although I can still feel on my tongue
the burn of your skin
I see from the reflection
in your eyes
that love is gone
or simply wasn't ever there at all.
And when you offer your hand
the palm is clean
as though it has forgotten
crushed fruit,
the bloody mess of love.