fallen

fledgling crabapples, once bursting rose peach-hued balloons,
lie quashed on wet sidewalks.
sad fruit entrails,
smell of lonely bottles of wine.
of nights spent fermenting.
flesh bubbling like forgotten yeast.
autumnal vermillion paste,
memories of a young love's burning cheek, now must-soaked nostalgia.
buds: bleed out over cement and tint and taint, and crust.