mulberryfinger
She's twisting them off the stringent green. Acini; burgeoned, bulbous, beneath the shuddering leaves. Ponders each one at arm's length, that is, enough distance for myopia to blur them into barreled beads, or maybe, odd and elongated pom-poms: the fuzz bristles the pads of her digits, the sun has been awake for at least three weeks now. The last one surrenders with a struggle, and it earns her a rivulet of red down the dorsum of her hand. She can't remember the last time she felt like this. Was it yesterday, or was it fourteen years ago? Was it a mulberry, she grasps at recollection, or something else that had bled the very same way?