Of all possibilities, it's a
Small, green, sour apple I choose
To break my forty hour fast.
Hungrily, I bite through it's
Lightly textured skin, perfect
Pale yellow crisp flesh, and
Do not stop until
Only a stem,
And a few small, brown seeds
Are all that remain in my sticky palm.
All of this, simply to say,
To you, who've so kindly checked in,
That reports of my death by starvation
Are greatly exaggerated, indeed.
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