One ripe peach and a man who can’t dream meet each other in a cool summer morning.
In the bright August light, the man finds himself observing the breakfast table, full of sweet and salty things. The wooden basket sits on a baby blue tablecloth, filled with ripe peaches. Greens and flowers bloom in the garden, roses and violets, and large trees shade the table from the hot air.
He takes a seat, drinking his coffee under a weeping willow tree. Bees and wasps flying around, eyes fixed on him and his ivory skin, reddened by the harsh sun.
The peaches are full, different shapes of red painting their skin too. A bit of yellow and green, but mostly maroon. His eyes travel back to him;
He is sucking on his fingers, eating a peach that seems as sweet as him.
His long fingers violate the fruit, harsh movements against soft peel, honey juice dripping from the inside onto his hands, his arms and his elbows, but he doesn’t seem to care. He smiles at the peach, happy to see within it.
It is wild to look at and kind to feel, wild eyes and devious smile, the attitude of an angel.
His roman nose sinks deep into the orange flesh. Honey on red lips, shining like amber and liquor. He desires to taste the peach on him, and the muse smiles because he knows it too.
Obscene and holy mixing together in front of his eyes. He wants to take a bite and swallow him from the inside. But it wouldn’t be enough to satiate his hunger.
Then he remembers: He is a poet.
Imprinting that scene on his memory like a fever dream, droplets of ink on his pale skin. Where he is grey and white, his muse is vibrant colors of mature fruits, shining rays of sunshine filtering through his long and thick lashes, green eyes framed by black eyebrows.
A contrast of vivid and plain, he finds himself worshipping a fruit touched by his muse’s hands.
Famelic enough to grab the sharp angle of his jaw and sink his teeth in the tender flash above his neck, to watch the drops of honey stain his arms too, a ripe fruit of skin and bones.
Then he blinks and it’s morning again. He lost track of time, and his muse is no longer there.
But for a man who can’t dream, one ripe peach is enough.
