Teeth break the skin. Juice runs down the wrist, staining everything. Sweetness first, sharpness after — the pull of something alive, just plucked.

Fruit refuses neatness. It demands fingers, lips, surrender to the mess. There is no dignified way to eat a peach, no careful method for a fig split open in the hand. It insists on contact — flesh against palm, sugar against tongue, the moment before you think to stop yourself.

Every mouthful is the sun, the tree, indulgence disguised as necessity.

Drip, drip, into a sweetness you wear long after.