Apple of My Eye

A peeling

My quaint nickname was ‘Apple of my eye’, but he was sorely cursed with a red stye. To me, ’twas an insult, not gonna’ lie. Styes are contagious; I begged he not cry.

’Twas futile; feelings he couldn’t deny, Tears he would shed till I thought he would die. His ‘Apple of my eye’ seemed old and dry. I felt more like a baked apple cream pie.

To peel away from him and say goodbye, picking the ripe time to leave on the sly. I planned for tonight to take to the sky, when he’d be asleep and I was not shy.

Plans perfected; I was ready to try. Grabbing packed bags with an air-kissed goodbye. The ‘Apple of his eye’ fled, free to fly. I might be back if he cures that damn stye.

“He who laughs, lasts.” — Mary Pettibone Poole

Thanks and gratitude to Smillew Rahcuef, Editor of The Pub, for verifying that I am crazy enough to be a Writer for him.