Cherry Juice
I wake up from a dream. In the moment before waking, someone whispers something that seems present and pressing to me at the time, words that don’t mean anything outside the moment of their dream context. Something under my skin is with me all day, but I can’t remember it, or can’t hear it.
I’m standing in the sun after some wandering around, looking for I’m not sure what. I’m drinking cherry juice through a straw from a box. When I turn with the light on my back, I see my dark shadow and a clear red line from my hand to my mouth, part of my shadow’s body.
The taste of the cherry is under something, not as easy and upfront as you might think. It’s under the sweetness. Like how a walnut has a flavor that is below and looks up at you, cherry juice is there being sweet but not knowing it. It’s not missing anything and not self-conscious, looking at you in the eye but saying something in your ear.
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