Sweetness

A smooth, sweet apple ever-ripe sleeps hidden in a pocket of my coat. Unbruised and blemish-free, a miracle of physics seen as all that it has traversed.

For on a specifically teetering day in the library, it slipped and bounced away from me down the stairs underfoot of a glowing patron. He hardly noticed, only breaking stride slightly and dragging glistening pieces of it across the carpet. I grieved the night in its entirety to find the next morning an eclipse of a heart-shaped shadow cast upon my floor.

Once offered to a curious lover for a look, I made the mistake of turning my face to the sky. Newly inspired and reaching for love, I noticed his lips were sticky-sweet and his hands empty. On my sore walk home, I collapsed and cried a small stream of tears. Rolling along its banks in the reeds another apple greeted me.

Now I hold my ever-ripe apple close to me in pockets that zip. I have lost my taste for pies and lip gloss, colors too-bright and sounds too loud. More sensitive perhaps, but harder as well. For one cannot remain bruise-less without reincarnating with a shell.