v u l v a l i c i o u s
dropped into your mouth
"23 years old and fresh as paint..."
I remember hanging heavy, full and ripe. Perfect, I see now, looking back. All softness and juice, wantonly dribbling down your chin at the first bite. Succulent.
Oh I'd have fallen off the tree, landed soft in your hand and begged to be taken right there. The fruit that was planted in the garden come to bear.
Or else I'd have dropped down, tender sweet, caught in your teeth and held there. Ready to burst, to pop and release and fall apart.
What could I have been, then, to you? I remember now calling you a beast, teasing you out with my words. Words were easier then, not so strong. I pulled at them and they came willingly, one after the other. It was the distance that made it so. Words gets harder the older I get.
And now I am the one with the jaw that bites and claws that catch, the one waiting silent, patient, for the first fruits to fall. I hold out my hand and capture a peach, all downy fuzz and sweet juice, and I do not think about where I was when I was 23, fresh as paint and full of promise.