The lemons on a tree are ripe during the summer, the yellow color is so full of brightness, freshness and a new love. When autumn comes around the corner they fall from their small branches and drop to the ground. By November they sit decaying on the nearly frozen ground. During the winter season the branches split and crack open leaving the wood splintered and brittle. The spring melts the frozen lemons, worms fester inside, to keep warm and eat the nourishment. Their byproduct creates life, which creates soil, for another lemon tree to grow. It is not as simple as a lemon, or the rotting mass of a fruit carcass. Simplicity, and delicate words help ease the complexity of relationships.
But I dont even know if I could venture out on that limb. It is not a relationship, it never is. He is the tree as always I am the decomposing lemon that is mutilated, and stripped of its dignity. Humility and the barren whitish underlayer of the peel is all that remains. I waste away like I was nothing more than a breeze that came and went. He is a tree sturdy, and ever tender providing life to creatures. I was not the creature, but the once beautiful flower, that turned into the sour lemon, that was left to rot because I could not be picked or caught.
But I dont even know if I could venture out on that limb. It is not a relationship, it never is. He is the tree as always I am the decomposing lemon that is mutilated, and stripped of its dignity. Humility and the barren whitish underlayer of the peel is all that remains. I waste away like I was nothing more than a breeze that came and went. He is a tree sturdy, and ever tender providing life to creatures. I was not the creature, but the once beautiful flower, that turned into the sour lemon, that was left to rot because I could not be picked or caught.