Peach juice slides down my throat
with sun sweetness and pit splinters.
I am left with a honeyed rawness
an exhilaration of pain
a song of blossoms.
Joy flows with undertones of longing
with desires fired from the ash
at the bottom of the kiln
in colors I do not understand.
We are partially fired pots
you and I, left unfinished in the day.
You paint me with breath and words.
