Why in the world would they call you an apple?!

Are they blind?!

They see you as a fruit, a word in conversations of farmers

Demoted from a noun to an article,

an offspring of branches and I’m not talking about those family trees

Darling, I’m no Johnny Appleseed

because pomology is not in my command

nor is it in the palm of my hand

and I don’t have to have the patience

To wait for the trees to grow

But for several occasions

I’ve been eyeing you

Out of the all the pink ladies and granny smiths

Dangling off branches by the stem

Wiggling into those butt-shaping jeans

That are about to rip once the denim legs are fit

And pushing up their breasts,

Creating cleavages the size of

National Park canyons, attracting motorboat fanatics

They try too hard to flaunt their superficial anatomy

And end up letting go of patience

And falling to the ground

Darling, I’ve come to realize that you are the

Apple of my eye,

and I am dreaming of my fingertips

sweeping you off your stem and

caressing your smooth skin

until I form calluses,

the ripples that make the sense of touch crippled

and I’m imagining my lips

Taking many trips around your globe

And vowing to refuse to let you bruise

And I’m smitten to the point

Where I ignore those who say, “there are other fruits in the trees!”

For you make me believe that you are the

Apple of my eye, and I stand proudly to say that

my life would have not been this

fruitful, without you.