Kitschy Sunday

Blood Orange on a Kitschy Sunday morning, with separated seeds spread about the kitchen sink. 

Solemnly b*tching and reminiscing on your last escapades of flower and nurture. But, sour was not the juice.

'Twas sweet and elegant in embrace.

So, as we replace our feelings, managing cut fingers from a dulled knife, elastic and made of plastic, we realize such bandages given to heal will not be found at your local store. Nevermore, as it never was.

Yet, we found them inside. Never hidden. Just waiting to be discovered, like the few seeds of a ripe Blood Orange on a Kitschy Sunday's Eve.