Turning sour
Like an apple bit by the bright whole morning sun
And left to rot by night one halved lonely moon
Turning sour
Like the wine he used to pour into the glass that wasn’t chipped
Now it’s pomegranate soda with a kick of aspartame
In the can
Turning sour
Like observing the husky black night tinge with the sickly orange hue of streetlights
As I walk home alone splattered with orange rain and puddles and tears
Turning sour
Like surprise into routine
Joy into chore
And flirtation into pastime
