Not Ready to be Ripe

Rum and Robots

Flash Fiction by Joni Caggiano – Picture courtesy of Vincent Wright – Unsplash (27 second read)

Watching the clock, I knew, as fresh dampness gathered between my breast,

that as the figs began to ripen, on our tree, to him, I would never be in season.

After school, on this screen porch, waiting for him, to see the toss of his head,

the glimmer of green in his eyes, I realized he would not come.

Rivers of red tears stream over my face, cutting slices of my disenchantment.

Unacquainted with the coupling act, for which he had demanded, abandoned was I.

Oh, how I loved him, for two years, like a fresh blueberry jam spread on bread,

baked before the sun spun her wonders, and the birds sang their songs.

Fracturing my heart, I carefully placed the pieces in a blue envelope.

The address was simply,


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