The Clementines are Rotting
The clementine trees in my backyard bore fruits for the first time.
Autumn had just ended, my soles had thickened and my blankets grew heavier.
An unassuming event and yet, it brought colour.
My bleak brown backyard and its wilting flowers were now graced by clementines.
Sweet little things, with a glossy sheen on their covers,
Those clementines were so good, I placed them in a jar for summer.
When spring came, it was not the same it was even better.
For a while at least, the clementine trees wore a different colour.
White fragrant blossoms, their petals gracing my now green grass.
Soft scents that never left and followed me everywhere.
Clementine blossoms in my pocket, on my shirt, on the tips of my fingers, stirred into my coffee, poured into my body and leaving traces on my bedsheets, pillows and lips.
The turn of summer has dried out my clementine blossoms.
That innocent white now wilting an ugly brown.
Clementine syrup stains on my shirt and lips,
My hands are sticky and fazed, where do they belong now?
The clementine syrup has spilt everywhere.
That pungent citrus, lingering in the air,
My now vacant hands try to grab hold of the scent
But the melancholic truth, my empty reality is that
my dearest clementines,
clementines that loved me so,
clementines that taught me life,
My loveliest clementines are now rotting and are no longer there.
~ ៷
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