Sunday, September 15, 2013


It feels cool, at first.

My fingers rise from its plump base to its tip, making me buy this particular piece from the fruit and vegetable stand that uses to be a diner, the young girl behind the counter smiling at my holding it against my cheek.

My fingers cling to it, as agile as mountain climbers, leaving their moist imprint against the skin.

I am always climbing imaginary mountains, always hoping to rise to the occasion so that when I can get to the top, I can raise my flag before taking the deep plunge into that dark valley.

I wait until Iím outside among the hanging plants to bite through that purple skin, letting its juice drip down my lips, something stirring inside me as I stroll back towards the laundry mat, some deeper feeling I canít get my teeth into, but know it rises from the core of me, a gush of something, a wish for more, a taste of the fruit that only leaves me hungry.


blogs menu

Main Menu

email to Al Sullivan