brownian motion

We stole the orange from a windless twilight. It was the kind of twilight where everything seemed still and grey, the kind with an air abuzz with the warmth of nothingness, the kind with three toes dipped into foggily crisp dream, the kind that makes people do things like decide to steal an orange. With undignified yanking we freed it from a tree bannering with fruit and you chiseled off its half-inch rind with a knife like a nineteenth-century anatomy lecturer in the middle of a dissection and we ripped open its flesh to feel its acidic insides running down our wrists and even though it was small and sour and its bitterness ricocheted through my throat we ate it reverently, a napkin barely containing the roguish smile dripping on my face.

Is this what happiness feels like? A fleeting moment of freedom? A sting of sunlight on the tongue?

It must be. The world is blossoming with oranges
for those with eyes to see.