I run my fingers atop the fruit as it’s skin thwarts the fibers of mine. In my hands, it can easily be bruised despite it being hard-headed. Behind the skin of the fruit was flimsy material. The flame of a candlewick splotched around its body. Set ablaze by the sun’s rays, hazed from a flare gun. There were patterns of flowers covering Hawaiian button ups worn by people with ventures. Sat aside, off into irrelevance, it gleamed with winsome wick. It begged to be eaten, but did not stand a chance to the coconut being carved into a cup that a miniature umbrella on a straw would accompany. It laid on a teacher’s desk, existing under undivided attention, yet to be engulfed as one that looked just like it became its new friend. It was a forbidden fruit eaten at a garden, dangling from a tree, claustrophobic in a plastic bag, yearing from a scrumptious standpoint. I grabbed the fruit enwrapped with character and bit into it, leaving a burst of flavor on my tongue. It bounces off one cheek and another and I continuously bite into it. It was as if I had drinked elixir; undiscovered, untouched.