The orange is desiring the peach again. Does it not already know that its own navel is just as delicious.
The fluff on the peach is just being fluffy. Confusion amounts on citrus skin. Does the orange not know that it can grow its own fluff and the desire for fluff will blow away; effortlessly. In the wind. Amongst dirty washing being held with snapped twigs. Because without the fluff a peach and an orange are just fruit, right?
Or merely cylindrical forms.
Inscribed in burnt orange pith, traits of ejaculation, a liquid for bubble blowing. Bubble bursting – illusion popping. Listen to the sounds of whistle tweets nearby howling birds. Caution embers flicker as gas stops entice. Lighting fires underneath the cauldron, full of dreams, gizzards and toes. Smoldering sage. Cut grass licking burnt cigar’s. Weeping eyelids curse sight melodies from making potions. Peach potions.