grapefruit

And so, the sour adventure begins.

To be was never a question,

but to exist, of course, it might have been;

an extrapolation, was never a necessity,

but the fall.

The fall, oh, it was awful.

Its remnants of sugarless dreams,

the one that speckled the rind with brown sugar –

what it could, what one knew…

that mattered not, did it?

It was of nuisance to the bud,

but fun, in a sadistic way,

that I could never forget.

It felled a silence,

and out with the oranges,

the lemons, and everything citruses,

even the kitchen soap,

they sighed;

longing, for the same effect,

of a bitter, and never honeyed,

play on the senses.

Little did they know,

it was a grapefruit,

only a grapefruit,

and forever a grapefruit;

its acidic tart,

a sorry reminder

of what tried to be a

sweet,

darling,

thing.