Tomato on Calendar

Tomato on calendar. Who calls calendar calendar? We call calendar calendar. We lose the. We lose the all the time. Anytime we can lose the, we ditch the. No to the. No to determiner. We call calendar calendar. We grab shoe and coat and head to store for coffee and tomato.

We have tomato in hand. We cut tomato. Who is we? We are we. I is not we. We say no to I. We is easier. Easier to say what we mean as we. We wrap fingers around knife. We lift knife over tomato, way after we lift pen to calendar. Way before arm guides wrist, before line forms circle. Our brain signals arm. Circle is tomato. We say our. Our brain. We want it to stay. You.

We dice tomato. We place onion in pan. We smoosh garlic with knife. We unwrap paper. We don’t hear your soft steps on wood floor. We only hear paper crinkle. Vegetable skin. Tomato paper cutter. Three hole punch sound. Knife slices tomato. Hand slides off knife. Hand slides down your back. Our hand. Your back.

We use your. We use you too. You get caught in we. Even if we aren’t referring to you, at all. We say at all. Even you are not a part of that all. All. We all. We all see tomato. We all see calendar. We touch date in box before we open door. We blow date a kiss. A single kiss. A kiss off. A list kiss.

You drew tomato. Friendly tomato. You drew tomato in box. Tomato with face. Winking tomato. Tomato with smile. Not in tomorrow’s box. Box from weeks ago. You drew tomato in box. Box is a day. A day we met. Day we met, only weeks ago. You left your mark on me. The day we met.

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