And so, the sour adventure begins.

To be was never a question,
but to exist, of course, it might have been;
an extrapolation, was never a necessity,
but the fall.
The fall, oh, it was awful.

Its remnants of sugarless dreams,
the one that speckled the rind with brown sugar –
what it could, what one knew…
that mattered not, did it?

It was of nuisance to the bud,
but fun, in a sadistic way,
that I could never forget.

It felled a silence,
and out with the oranges,
the lemons, and everything citruses,
even the kitchen soap,
they sighed;
longing, for the same effect,
of a bitter, and never honeyed,
play on the senses.

Little did they know,
it was a grapefruit,
only a grapefruit,
and forever a grapefruit;
its acidic tart,
a sorry reminder
of what tried to be a

sweet,
darling,
thing.