held

peaches are the flavor of the season and i've been absorbing them at every pore. a peach is soft and sweet, hence meeting the requirements of my recently bereaved gums. while its flesh is all pulpness and amiability, its skin has a itchy coarseness to keep things from getting too monotonous.

does that fit here? to write about a peach, you must become the peach. sour at the teeth, but osmosing sweetness. like every cell in your mouth is playing catch with a palm of sugar. you don't know where the sweetness will spring from next, and that's the beauty of the peach. a clefted globe with fire in the centre, plush silence all around and a surface of velvet fuzz.

would you suspect that wicked prune at the pit to be fertile, much less a prisoner?