peach fuzz and milk teeth: a study on stone fruits

when i was a kid i used to love peaches, i relished their soft fuzz and grinned as their juice spilled from the gaps where milk teeth should be and dripped down my chin. your skin was so soft and i could've sworn heaven resided in your pupils.

(i still love you)

my grandmother had a peach tree in her backyard, i would pester my cousins to pick them for me. i would lay in the grass and stare into the clouds—i'm certain if i looked close enough now i'd see your silhouette.

i used to savour the peaches and creams in lolly bags so i could have all my favourites at once, i wish i had've held onto everything you gave me with such dedication. i have cursed myself with a forever of longing stares but so long as i can embrace you occasionally and fall asleep in your sheets i'll be content with something rather than nothing at all.

i used to read stories of princesses and knights, i believed that one day my prince would whisk me away and carry me into peachy sunsets. my dreams now sleep differently yet softly, they smell of you and they taste of peach. 

sometimes when in my lonliest hours i walk through fruit markets and graze my fingertips over peach fuzz. its not identical but if i imagine hard enough it matches the curve of your cheek and sunkissed summer days simulate the warmth of your presence.

does the scent of stoned fruit stop you in your tracks like its effect on me? i suppose i never really told you about that part of me.

if believing my fairytales is synonymous with the magic of your body next to mine in the morning light then i will subscribe to such a lifestyle—in a love that's more peach pit than poetry (which was all due to my pride) i can agree with bitterness and bruises so long as it remains mine all the same.