Peach
It sits alone, so ripe
I can smell its heavy sweetness.
I reach in and press the skin,
leaving an impression
too easily.
Carefully, I pick it up,
stretching my lips to take in
as much as my mouth will accept,
letting the juice gush down my chin
in slow syrupy rivulets.
When all that is left is the pit
and the mess, I gaze down at
nature's currency in my palm.
Wrinkled and hard,
this could still give life.
But, I throw it away
and wipe my face and hands.
A tidy end to the forgettable slaughter.
Yet, I can still smell its ghost
on my fingers.
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