Image by Illusionality.
see the ripe, pink
flesh to tear into
with finger nails,
spraying citrus
into the air, and
leaving snowy
bitter residue.
Smell the air;
that crisp juice
to tense tongues.
A sour luxury.
Hold it there,
and hear ripping,
a slow, rind-tearing
from antiquity.
Sweet inside.
Tart, perhaps
too sour too.
Yet wet behind
that transparent
filmy skin it pops,
almost crunches
its juice from its
little pockets.
;-P