Wrists, bound, warm against cool tile.

Knowing someone is behind but unable to see.

Falling with nothing to grab onto.

Bound.

No chance.

No choice.

His choice.

An apple red and ripe on a dusty heated fall afternoon.

The juice is tempting.

The red.

Powers. Poetic power.

He reaches, pulls, plucks.

The bound red wrist holds the bitten fruit.

Poet. Power.

He devours.