Grapes

Frankie Reed

we hung together —

tight, green,

not yet sweet.

small things,

skin against skin,

no space for air.

you leaned

into every breeze.

I held still.

neither of us said

what we knew

about weight.

we ripened unevenly.

you softened.

I didn’t.

the stalk grew thin

between us.

not broken —

just tired.

when I fell,

there was no sound.

just grass.

just air.

just me,

not where you were.

you stayed.

you always would have.

still facing the light

like it was enough.

if I’d stayed too,

maybe we’d have gone

quietly —

turned dark,

sank sweet

into ourselves.

but I tasted the sour

before it came.

and left

before you noticed.

More from Frankie Reed ↓

• @frankensteins.curios on Instagram
• She is co-curator of Flesh and Parchment, a Liverpool based zine and live poetry event celebrating queer and neurodivergent creativity.

You can listen to me read another poem, titled Skin, by Frankie over on Instagram @rembrandts.cure