Tonight I want to fall asleep, with thoughts of peaches. Funny…when I imagine peaches I don’t see a blooming tree or a laden with ripe fruits epergne. In front of my eyes there is a picture from a catalog with cheap cosmetics. A beautiful picture, however. A cut peach. Only one little peace is missing, allowing the dark brown and passionate stone in the middle to show. Around that stone flow fire-red and burgundy nuances. Then they shade gradually to sappy, shiny and fresh yellow. And then comes the down, so beautifully reminding of velvet, inviting one to have a bite. Delicate drops of sweetness appear on the surface; tiny drops, almost transparent.
This is what I call an awaiting fruit. For it is waiting for the whiff of pleasantly warm breath. It is waiting for the next bite, so that it can meet these lips again.
Only the ones known true passion do eat peaches before they fall asleep. It is an instinct. One just feels the need to first taste only the drops on the outside. Scarcely after that, does he want to press his lips to the fruit itself and dry it up, with half-closed eyes and a sharpened focus on the senses.
The olfaction is drenched with the scent of this fascinating fruit.
The taste gives in to the intoxicating like ambrosia sugary syrup.
The sense of touch glides upon the downy outside admiring its softness.
The sight observes cautiously the adroit game of the colors of the caressed by sun peach: bright; promising; tempting. Red is in all of its nuances onto and underneath the sheer surface. Orange is inexorable, but just a little gently tempting. Sunny like joy, it is vivid, burning and irresistible.
A peach in my fingers, fully woven by lure. It feels almost moving between my fingertips. That I call an awaiting fruit, and I shall taste it before I fall asleep.
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