In the ripeness of the morning

You asked, what are we but 
purple skies, bruised and hidden
behind tasteless wine?

I did not answer you then,
being swayed by the clashing
air, bitter seeds and peels crushed
beneath my tongue,
my mind already tasting regret

Now, in the decaying eve, I wish I told you,
maybe secretly we are
glittering grapes, lucky like
amethyst, filled to spilling point
of faith and sun-warmed sugar

I want to whisper to you, sun gently rising
maybe secretly we are 
royal purple, not a cheap aubergine,
crystals polished into fine
silver dust, entrancing moonlight
into our embraces,

in the ripeness of the morning