August is a ripe peach

August is a ripe peach.

Big and juicy,

soft and round,

and promising.

~

So promising...

~

Sometimes I want to grab it

and take a savage bite—

juice flowing down my

chin, my neck,

my arms.

I want it to cover me

and make me sticky

while I get to its seed.

~

Other times I just want

to place it on my table,

exhibit it in a crystal cake stand—

because it's so divine,

it deserves special treatment.

~

But on most days

I expect too much from it,

and it expects to much of me.

I place it on the top of my fridge—

I'm gonna find the right place for it,

but then I completely forgot about it,

even though I pass by it several times,

until it starts to decay.

~

But oh, then it's too late

to do anything,

to save it,

to savor it.

Could I just cut this part off

that still looks ripe and edible?

But it taste like cheap wine,

I don't want it anymore.

~

And so, my peach is gone.

I'm left with the memory of a promise.

And just so, August has passed

and I didn't get anything done.