Broken teeth stand as gaurdians in front of
the secret sanctuary of his mouth, left unvisited
by a woman's tongue for too many years.
The taste of her mouth floats atop
his tongue, still a pungent flavour of peaches
and cream: her favourite. Sitting in a field
of her beloved peach trees, he bites into the soft
fruit, eating it for her. This one is noticeably
sour; perhaps the leftover cream
could not still coat it in its protective glaze.
Beads of sugary water drip down his
wrinkled chin, eventually falling onto the
cushioning grass below. A contrasting flow
of tears mingle with the juice - creating a scent
of chewy sweet and sour candy.
The salty water slides through his teeth:
No, not you, he thought,
that space is reserved only for her.
