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The Loneliest Grapes

I favor grapes as crisp as a morning ground covered in frost, and as deep and smothered in crimson as a twilight sky.

And I favor the grapes from the vine which are plump and fat, rounded by loneliness and isolation.

These are the crispest, the most rigid in their skin. And when my teeth sink in with their extended effort, a burst of liberated emotions seep into my mouth.

Those grapes with which might be just as crimson as the rest, but lay along the skin of others, they are softer against the mouth.

They reserve patches of their own flesh for supple companionships among which they all bend and forge into one another; sharing the brilliance of a forever-weaving vine. 

When they fall from their branch of the vine, they are swollen in softness; there is less of a secret to their flavor. 

 The loneliest grapes are the toughest to break into, the last to reveal their insides. 

but oh, the loneliest grapes are sweeter.