one ripe peach

The peach is so sinfully ripe that my thumb slips and slides the skin open as my teeth take the first bite. The skin's fur tickles my lower lip, teasing it, so I have to worry my lip with my teeth to make it feel normal again. The inside is slippery cool, sweet silk with a hint of sour that whispers on the back of my thorat. It makes my tongue's tip taste sweet all the more. Large mouthfuls of perfect texture--threads of taste, catching in my teeth, sliding down my tongue to settle in my stomach; I can feel them there, the tang is more pronounced through the muscles of my middle. Juice drips between my fingers, leaving sticky traces to follow with licking--none of this fruit escapes--and it seeps through the skin, dampening the fuzz and leaving a sweet, dribbling mess between my fingers and in my mouth. Nothing is left now but a stone, hung about with drips and banners of peach silk, threads that won't loosen and juice that won't drop.