love, eve

adam, you fuck up so perpetually,
i am at a loss to keep you from it.
so what if i am an apple,
ripe with contempt for your sincerity?
sincere is not the same as honest,
and i am ripe for the picking
but have no illusions about what happens next.
(consume, consummation, get it?
it's a good allegory for the way you swallow me whole.)
and you, adam, you are all possibilities,
a million paths and directions all open
and unable to choose a single one.
your broad shoulders slumped with discontent,
and i, an offering of the body,
cannot compete with your spirituality.
from the outset i was struck
with the deepest ennui for your love,
so your abandonment is not a surprise
just a disappointment.
you've learned to be something new
here, adam, than ever you have been before:
a war of sexuality and intellectuality,
a star shining bright in the heavens
that offers direction
but no answers: why wouldn't you walk
to see, why wouldn't you seek to find?
always a failure, and here i am,
the apple rife with blood on the tree
with no eye or hand or mouth to please.