Every time I saw a pineapple fruit, I remembered someone. Someone who chooses pineapple juice over a cold beer. Someone who likes to swallow the fruit over the greasy chips.
Someone despite drinking this tropical fruit regularly doesn’t have the carbs to express thoughts and never lower the risk of hiding the feelings. It doesn’t improve the immunity to be brave, never shared the healing ability to mend the wounds created, and doesn’t have the strength to ask why, what’s next, where did we go wrong.
My pineapple is someone I have liked for a long time, hated for a while and eventually becomes a good friend. He suffered enough for emotional constipation and I understand it very well.