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the fruit was, strictly speaking

not necessary. my fridge was already

full of languishing apples

relics from an overzealous

bid at wellness

guilt-struck by my excess

even food poisoning seemed

a poor excuse for such


fully recovered

i ventured to whole foods

determined to make up

for my week of congee

armed with a list

of planned desires

i marched past the chips

but faltered by the cantaloupes

even through my mask

i could smell their musky fragrance

beckoning like summer

sunlight translated

into sweetness

basket straining

i found myself

cradling a baby melon

swollen with expectation

that night, i carved

three luscious crescents

out of my cantaloupe

the flesh exploded with flavour

floral yet meaty

juices running down my chin

sweet just short of sour

i basked in the offering

i made to myself

grateful for the return

of my appetite


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