I'm having a rough night.
I could tell
you weren't thinking about me.
It's been too long;
We've had too long.
The giddy excitement's rotted
and grows green attachment;
fuzzy, unclear,
but I still cut away the mold
and try to sweeten the juice
that won't be salvaged
because you don't want it to.
What am I supposed to do
with rotten fruit?
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