Fingerprints.

A single apple dangles off a branch not too high
red and waiting to be savoured
but the wind refuses to blow
and the grass beneath it refuses to grow
time would not pause
because a single cloud has no will
the dust on the window sill
is what the queen once craved
silky strands of hair
don't make him happy anymore
he needs sugar and shimmer and shadows
and her fingerprints on his arm.