I know exactly what this looks like.
Cold, grey, and understated.
It's the bruised piece of fruit at the bottom of the crate;
the one everyone sees but won't commit to buying.
He thinks he won't buy it either,
but when she drops him,
the loneliness consumes, it envelopes,
and the grasping begins.
He grabs... anything.
He grabs the bruised fruit.
He sinks his teeth into its soft flesh;
juices sweet;
texture pleasing.
He forgets the superficial imperfections.
After he's enjoyed it down to its bare core,
it knows.
This was only temporary.
He won't replant the seeds to watch it grow.
He won't thank it for the nourishment
that got him by.
He will drop it, without regard,
as he admires
the polished pieces placed at the top of the crate.
When he's hungry, he'll choose, carefully, this time,
without letting on he knows exactly what this looks like.
Seeds by a trashcan;
unfulfilled potential strewn across the floor;
a rotting purpose.
© Bitsy Sanders, January 2019