Fickle

I never planned to talk about fruit.  

I was going to speak of romance, feats of derring-do, 

having discovered a very cool guy with a story 

to tell.  But try as I might, he just stood there, 

never swashing his buckle, just mute and smirking, 

thumbs hooked in his belt.  OK, so screw ‘im. 

I’ll tell you instead about fruit. OK, not all fruit, 

just peaches and pears. Peaches are lovely, yes,

but they’re so obvious, you know?  Now, pears?  

Pears are mysterious.  I’m intrigued by pears.  

I really want to like pears, but they’re always so 

stand-offish, unknowable, teasing with hidden potential 

that they never deliver.

I guess I must be a glutton for punishment, silly me,

because I keep giving pears another chance.

One day, as I searched yet again for the perfect one,

I found this lone peach hanging out with the pears. 

The peach sat there shyly, listing slightly to the left,

a little off-kilter, fuzzy cheeks blushing beneath my gaze.

The eager peach looked completely out of place

among the arrogant indifferent pears.  Choose me,

it seemed to whisper, sweetness riding on its breath.

I’ve always been a sucker for strays, so it should be

no surprise that it was the peach I took home.   

I might speak here of its warmth and the softness 

of its skin, the slight give of the flesh under my touch, 

the lushness beneath the blush, and the incredibly sweet 

juice that...  sigh.   But I won't.  That would be unseemly.
  

Ssshhh...

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This was written for One Shot Wednesday.