Peach
Slightly overripe,
it dangles just above
my head. With the tips
of my thumb and fingers,
I clutch it,
pluck it from the tree,
and snap off its stem
with my teeth.
It bleeds a drop
of juice. The reds
and yellows of its skin
are softened
by its gossamer
of fuzz. Its fragrance,
still warm with sun,
makes my mouth water.
Just before I bite,
I see its cleft
beaded with dew,
flushed as your cleavage
after love.