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crimson Nov 4
purple mixed with blue
in the middle of june
you smell like citrus
it seems to be untrue

purple mixed with blue
you gave me lavender
when the sun hides
and you started to cry

green hill, cloudy sky
i could see the light
in hazel-colored eyes
violet looks blue

you said goodbye
and we became so far
purple mixed with blue
you are the last summer
and the tears of lavender
Squeeze gently like lemons and fruits
Sweet nectar juices produced

**** tongue close to core
Butterscotch like tapped sycamore

Perspiration seeps from peel
Porous citrus aromates near

Grown in sun among the wildflowers
Oh how I love her, even when she sours
an American
tree with
mandarin flute
that made
cute in
her high
shoes where
courtier still
glazed midland
snow with
mistletoe on
this street
as lit
for shop
till the
new year
was shone.
market street in usa
Payton Hayes Jul 2018
You are no lemon, or lime but
for some reason you
are still bitter, even
more so than a grapefruit
and I credit envy
with the way
you are so green.
Perhaps you are this
way because it is
winter when you bloom
and the sun isn’t out
to kiss you in the way
it does with oranges.
Alex Greenwell Apr 2018
The smell of bleach is overwhelming,
but my mother always liked the smell.
She would mix bleach with a splash of lemon and the smell of sickly citrus would
drift through the house.
She would spend hours on the floor, scrubbing
each baseboard and kitchen tile.
Each swish of the mop would bring my mother
closer to God.
But for me, the fumes seemed to shake my mind and cause each ridge in my brain
to sweat.
My head succumbing to the pressure of finding my home
sterilized,
like some hospital.

Bleach burns. Once I let my hand slip into that lemon-scented pail,
feeling the itch rise up my wrist.
It felt similar to the Holy Spirit rising through my
chest during each Sunday service.
An antiseptic,
a decontaminate, something that desensitized and purified.
So, I began to rub my hands, with a spiritual fever,
letting my skin flake from each coat of
lemon-scented cleanliness.
But somehow, I never felt clean enough.

I never felt sanctified.
JP Sep 2017
Your curves
Your lines
Every strokes
I wish it's mine

Your portrait
Your stern trait
When it melts
Huge urge is felt

Jaw opened
To the point of drooling
Lips bit
Sends me imagining

I hold my breath
I grit my teeth
I wet my lips
As my body shakes

Black or white
Or colored in sight
Your beauty seems alive
You're the epitome of my desire

And so I close this book
Put it on a stack of volumes
For this is the painful truth
You're just a character inside **Citrus
To Aihara Mei of Citrus manga.
As a lemon is laurel and a grove near a bay only
that lies trees with the cherry blossom seeds
in these seasons of bliss where splendor was wind
and resplendency now accord with the crabgrass
while lust sublime in these orchards of time.
Her ultimate
orange turf
apprized forte
that tide
swiftly bode
as sun
gleamed brilliantly
where in
vernacular with
her love
then might
rain today
when awash
with her
orchard grove
insignia embossed
with repartee
Sydney Queen Apr 2015
I still sigh at the smell of citrus.
How could I not?
It was always you and that crate of oranges,
ambling towards the market
and me.
The flowers turn to you
instead of the sun when they pass.
I figure they don't know the difference.
I keep swearing to gods I stopped believing in.
Cyrus,
I've got oleander in my eyes
and my teeth
and my everything.
We didn't mean to water it so well,
But how could we not?
I keep seeing this phantasm
where I'm peeling oranges in the kitchen.
It smells like weathering wood and you.
The window is open
while you smile at me through it,
one hand placed gently on the windowsill.
My soul be ******.
You look like magic.
I watch you hand me an orange,
gently,
tenderly.
I don't remember taking that step forward.
I suppose it's always like that with you.
Cyrus,
they say that oranges are for good fortune.
How could they not?
I try to make sense but it usually doesn't work. Sorry about that.
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