The Apple

“You artist types can be so paranoid.”

Photo by cottonbro from Pexels

“I love you. Why don’t you believe me?”

But I still stare at the red apple she holds. I think of forbidden fruit, of the tree of all knowledge of good and evil, of the way Snow White fell from the poisoned taste at her lips.

My muse, my love— surely she would not deceive me?