How does an apple rot?

Slowly, its crisp white insides run with juices.
They glisten in the bright lights surrounding it,
and the apple sits there.
Waiting.
Hoping.
Rotting.

It doesn't know this yet,
But Time is moving on.
Around it everything is;
being born,
growing old,
dying.

It's pink facade fades to a darker red
and its shiny, thin skin is
bruised,
cut,
forgotten.

Slowly its bruises become softer,
caving in onto the insides.
The tight complexion sags;
It's red coloring
fades
into
a wrinkled brown.

It waits,
still hoping to be plucked
from its strained stem.

Time goes on.
The apple becomes a heavier load;
its once red skin
crumpled and brown.
It is sucked dry by the harsh lights.

Its stem strains no longer
and the apple falls to the ground;
Never being plucked,
it smashes to the ground.

Never to be remembered again.