Peaches

Again last night
I dreamed of them
and their fuzzy baseball shape.
Peaches, you know.
Like babies' skin.
All piled in a pyramid
atop my double bed,
spilling over the sides,
bouncing off the ground
with gentle thuds
like hail
on your father’s canvas tent.

And all I wanted
oh so bad,
was to crawl in
and snuggle down,
rub my elbows against their skins
remembering yours.


I like the way
your epidermis slaps
and slides
against mine,
generating applause
as we dry hump
among the jars of preserves
in your nonni’s cellar.
Pomedoro, peppers, olives and jam.
But peaches,
cool honey coloured jars
of that delicious gooey liquid
suspending peaches
which float
like tiny orange pool toys
and bob around my head
as I climax
and I knock one over.

You know
my favourite moment
of all eternity
was when you kissed me
covered in peaches