We sat across from each other on a wide couch
as I ate the last peach in the bag
A half-peck of peaches, and now the last of its juice ran down my sleeve like a secret
Flesh caving into pockets of yellow light.
we ate four peaches each yesterday
And she told me that back in the orchard, too much peach fuzz left an itch on your skin like a crust of sun or toast under the knife. She told me that she and her girlfriend had been off and on since September.
I like that her lips are so pale that they fade into her skin, the boundaries further blurred by the hint of freckles that bristle up over her lip line, the perfect piqued O of pink and tan.
I like that the end and the beginning are only suggestions, a change of blush, a well placed star in the night sky tells you where to follow through to Orion's belt.
When I finished the last peach in the bag
I held the pit in my mouth for a long time learning its tufts and crevaces
I felt the trail of sweet dry down