Glossy

Ruddy

Roundish

Fruit.

You are

A metaphor.

Yet there you sit

Clear as the window

Across the kitchen,

Shiny like the table

Upon which you rest

Your imperfect sphere.

Do you feel alone,

My sweet?

Do you feel

Threatened

By the way my mouth waters

When I look at you?

Tell me,

What was it like

When you fell from your tree?

Was the grass soft?

Was the sky blue above?

Because I think it rather gray now

And that the world outside

Looks much like a mudpie.

Lovely piece of flesh,

Drip of juice,

Your face lacks any kind

Of sticky brown bruises,

Yet I know you've been dropped.

And the ground is hard,

The crate is hard,

The tiles upon this floor

Are hard.

"May I crush you?

Put you into

Apple sauce?"

Calm yourself,

Dear little one,

I was merely

Joking.

Yes...

Joking.

You see? I can bring you to my lips

And inhale the scent

Of your ripening skin

With perfect self control

And not even

Take a

BITE.

It would appear,

My darling fruit,

That I must take back my words,

For I have failed you.

So delicious

You appeared

You turned my truth

Into a lie.

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