Slightly overripe,
it dangles just above
my head. With the tips

of my thumb and fingers,
I clutch it,
pluck it from the tree,

and snap off its stem
with my teeth.
It bleeds a drop

of juice. The reds
and yellows of its skin
are softened

by its gossamer
of fuzz. Its fragrance,
still warm with sun,

makes my mouth water.
Just before I bite,
I see its cleft

beaded with dew,
flushed as your cleavage
after love.

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