‘You’ve so much passion in you,
that everytime you look me in the eyes,
the hands of God descend from up above
and peel the muscle off my heart
as if it were an orange.
It’s just that, usually,
when you do peel an orange,
you’ve the overt aim of feeding on it,
but you’ve no intention in doing anything to me.
You’ll leave me standing,
waiting for the bigger dose I so pathetically crave,
maybe you’ll even wave your hand at me.
You’ll make no step towards me though,
and so the musky smell of orange juice
will succomb in the dense air of my thoughts.
Maybe you’ll know that your passion is my sole addiction,
or maybe you’ll know not.
As every orange does at some point,
the muscle of my heart will become stale.
Everyone will know to stay away,
because that fruit’s no good.’,
she said to herself miserably
as she sipped from the half-empty glass of orange juice.