The color of this orange is very pleasing to me

she said, handing me half of the freshly peeled orange

We huddled in the only tiny spot of shade in a deep desert canyon at high noon

Swallowed small bites

Gulped greedy slices

Indulged every sense as the bright tang exploded into our dry mouths

Our fingers and faces became sticky, with each bite, drops of juice splashed onto the ancient

rocks at our feet

We had nothing but time then; we had no concept of time then

Surrounded by eons of time and pressure, we were blithely unaware of time and pressure

In that moment it was inconceivable that one day this would all be dust, that one day this love

would be only memory

In the future, the rocks around us return to dust

In the future, we give and receive hurt instead of orange slices

In the future, the rock dust is turned into new rocks

In the future,

every time I eat citrus in the desert I miss them