Between Breakfast and Bedsheets

Even now
at the end
of my summers
I look for one.
Skin just so
and weathered
from the sun,
swinging defiantly
from the branches
overlooked.
I pluck it, and
the weight is good
in my palm
My thumb
makes quick work
of swirling
down the valley
to warm the flesh
before burying my face
into hot fuzz.
And it gives
way between my teeth,
creamy texture
dropping its dress
beneath my tongue
dripping down
my face and
elbows
as if it were me,
plucked
seasons too soon,
caught
between breakfast
and bedsheets.

© Nicole Lyons 2017

 

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