Limbs disparaged and broken,

conceptions through apple trees of July,

birthed with the right to embody something more contemptuous than the

petite breasts sleeping across your chest.

Inhaling the summer air,

stiff and rigid with the smell of summer ale,

and contorting freedom.

But you shall not be rendered the juice

released from the pit of a perfectly picked peach:

no.

She will not open,

will not show,

will not speak the words you have spoken,

etched across her face

from words branded to paper-

charred.

She caught fire from those summer words

you let her overhear,

directly spoken in the aura of a sunset,

melting like the peach in her pie,

beautiful and perfectly picked.

And you sunk your teeth into the flawlessness

the fruit of her wisdom

and you sighed,

told her,

and she began to advance toward the security you conformed.

But no,

you pretended the peach was poison,

the smell of summer ale,

a toxin.

Nothing perfectly picked-

nothing beautiful-

always hindering

always hurting,

because beauty

(appreciation is void)

nor love

was never picked by you.