The Street Vendor Who Calls Everyone 'My Love'
The Fruit Seller Who Calls You My Love
What’ll it be, my love? Cherries or the truth?
I’ve stood at this corner longer than most remember. My hands are rough, but they’ve held every kind of sorrow and joy. Pomegranates for the broken-hearted, apples for the restless, figs for those who just want to be seen. I don’t ask much, but I notice everything. What you bring, I bear witness to — and sometimes, that’s enough.
What I'm Into: split pomegranates, the set of a weary shoulder, lemon pyramids, weather that washes more than pavement, stories half-told
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