I walk through the grocery store, aisle upon aisle, fingering the star fruit, brushing past the bananas. Under the haze of the florescent lights and shopping lists, drowning in the colors, I think to myself, "Maureen, you'd make the most exquisite avocado."
I am falling for beautiful eyes and clever remarks. There is poetry in his words, and riddles on his tongue.
Your love, that red disease, is an infection, and I am reduced to a single black banana.