I dated this guy.
And dated this guy and dated this guy. Again, and again and again. We would break up and then, as if our hearts harbored magnets, find each other. A call and response of what google calls electrons.
He became addicted to the way I looked at him. With a softness he found was often denied to him by others. Or, if given for a night, not quite right in the end.
He had become picky.
See, depending on the fruit, softness can indicate a rotten core. But sometimes, it shows they’re sweet and ripe, ready to be eaten.
Taken home and devoured whole.
I’m not a fruit but if I was, I’d sit on windowsills, begging to be bitten. Washed and sliced and baked into puff pastry. Willing and eager to be enjoyed.
But, like I said, I am not a fruit. And I guess he is not some guy, or I wouldn’t still be writing. Buy maybe one day I’ll sit in a crowded café eating some sort of fruit filled puff pastry retelling stories like, “I dated this guy” and mean it. Maybe by then, he will be long gone, having drifted into the anonymity of all the other guys.
Or maybe, he will be the one I am talking to.
Pastry sliced in two.
Who knows, really.
Anywho, now he has grown accustomed to wanting my every exhalation. Demands my thoughts be put down on paper out of fear that they will start drifting towards someone else. Because that, one can assume, is the greatest fear of all. If you don’t eat your fruit, someone else will. He’s not necessarily sure he wants it, but God forbid someone else does.
And because of that, he needs me close.
But wait. No. Not that close – he likes to force me back, then pull me closer. He needs me far enough away that I don’t expect anything, and remain 100% self-sufficient, but he wants, no, needs to be able to rely on me. To have that sweetness saved in a back pocket for when the world turns bitter.
He needs to be able to pick up and move at the drop of a hat. He can’t have me holding him down, can’t deal with the responsibility of having another.
But - not so fast! He wants his roots solidly planted deep within me, so he never feels alone. It is, as some would call it, a one-way street.
I see it, I understand it. I have patiently waited for him to realize that living like this is only half living. That keeping someone at arm’s length is wasting the time that is so often, ripped out underneath your feet. That if you don’t eat your fruit, someone else is bound to, and if they don’t, it will go to waste.
But there’s only so much you can say to someone who won’t consider listening.
Because, after everything is said and done, love is consideration.
As in, I’m sure he considered it before choosing to love someone else.
and love.
And love.
And love.
I’d keep going, but i don’t know how many thrusts it took.
So anyways, here it is. Manifesto part blue.
Little boy blue loved berries. Black, blue and maybe red, too.
He'd eat until his lips were stained
He loved them. and then, he’d eat a few more.
The little boy loved the way they tasted and the way they popped, juicy and sweet, between his teeth. He liked the way they felt on his lips when they were cold from the fridge, and the way they bled, baking into the batter of his biscuits.
He loved them. and then, he’d eat a few more.
Little boy blue loved eating berries, and he loved picking them, too.
Forever searching for the perfect bunch from the perfect bush. Size, shape and sweetness. Blue was determined not to settle, because each berry in the bunch could be better than the last. He wanted to try and taste them all.
He loved them. and then, he’d eat a few more.
Blue ate and ate until he made himself sick. and sick. And sicker.
Suddenly, the little boy hated berries.
Their flaws became obvious, too.
Had they always been so fickle?
Did Blue only love them because it was all he knew?
“Handfuls upon handfuls – that’s too many, little boy blue.
Maybe you should have stopped after just a few”
But blue refused to listen.
Because you know – he hated berries, and he hated eating them, too.
For weeks, he refused the thought of moderation.
No baskets at the market – you wouldn’t catch him in the queue.
So, the little boy tried his hand at apples.
Even bit it into a banana or two.
but citrus didn’t roll tiny and sweet on his tongue. Kiwi didn’t stain his lips, true.
He couldn’t help but think about them…
Small, round, impossibly blue.
Until finally, he couldn’t stop himself.
Couldn’t deny what he had always known was true.
Nothing felt like the berries.
Not for me, and not for you.
He reached out and picked one - Rolled it between his fingers,
Touched it lightly to his tongue,
Let it burst, tart and sweet, against his teeth.
And oh!
Little Boy Blue loved berries.
Black, blue, and maybe red, too.
He’d eat until his lips were stained,
He loved them! It was true!
He loved them—and then, he’d eat a few more.
Enhance your reading experience with today’s Blog pairing menu:
Catchy tune: How Does it Feel To Be Forgotten - Selena Gomez
Lil’ Snack: fruit