Yellow Heart

This morning I wrote a poem about a yellow heart pining for red fusion, in a desperate attempt to shake the fruit that never falls And tonight I am alone without tangerine lips or the temptation of apple, carefully watching familiar verses unravel themselves and fanatically dance around like a final punctuation mark or an overused cliche, while my hands whittle metaphors into a quick-witted instrument sharp enough to scrape the smeared imagery off the sidewalk of poem, Still I am not sorry the fruit has not fallen to kiss my weary head, it takes an overly cautious yellow to see the perfect shade of red