God and Pitted Fruit

I decide to amuse my apathetic self with frozen cherries, their juice is dramatic, like licking blood off your fingers- purple, red, cold.
“Vampires die when they drink dead blood, cold blood,” I remember.
Fresh, Frozen, Grade A, No Sugar Added, Dark, Sweet cherries, Pitted.
“Pitted” I think, “heartless, dead, they thaw and ripen in your mouth. Sweet cold cherries, pitted.”
How do they get the pits out?
I look for puncture wounds.
Unblemished.
How do they get the pits out? Have they bred the hearts out?I bite, then crack! I bite a heart.
I smile, thank you, I say to someone.
I understand. I created a metaphor and so
you adressed me from within it.
Heartless! Bred to live without hearts!
All cherry, all fruit and sweet without heart!“Nice metaphor,” you said, “and on that note- here- you, you have, be, find, by chance, by luck, by destiny, the one cherry with a heart, one, out of thousands.
“Here, for you.”