even the peaches
taste like you in summertime
ripe with the heat of august
with their sticky sweet flesh,
succulent and trembling pale
beneath the tips of skimming fingers
that linger over their taught orange-pink skin.
sitting in their bright blue bowl
on the countertop
beside the violent reds, purples, and yellows
erupting in their vase,
they blush with reservation,
afraid they too will fall.
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