peaches

is it polite to delight in the subtle softness staining sticky picky fingers fetching prime perfect peaches from branches breathing wind swept depths of that lengthy lingering desire destined to remain sustained and contained in our two tangled tears grasping at an end which years depend on to produce bountiful bushels of promised perfection that is the turning of this seasoned reason?

mull that one over like the fine wine you design in each soft sip you take of the words I drip onto this page.

we can pretend to understand together.