Grapefruit

A grapefruit, even perpetually unopened, is so much more than a round thing, a ball. Though I toss it in the air, when I hold it in my hand, I hold so much potential, so much life. The fruit is a living item, cool from the windowsill, holding a sense of self completely apart from my own. I hold it cupped in my hands and feel another being, something I cannot bear to break, something whole. While it sits in my windowsill, I cannot help but regard it. I respect it, the grapefruit. It fills me with a sort of mottled joy, the shaded, speckled skin uneven, scarred, blushing in parts. The odor is slight, but the effect profound. The skin, the acetic oils shine in the lamplight. Something that I cannot understand endears me greatly to this grapefruit, which sits so cold, so smug, so clearly at peace.