Alphabet Soup Minuscule

J.C. Scheff

Soft Spots 


The hunger for fidelity is like a
white flesh peach.
You grasp her shape in your palm and slowly, unresisted, bring her to mouth.
The soft feel of her fuzz against your lips leaves you in flames.

You press on her soft spots, her bruises.
And still…you crave her.
Want her like an addict needs his fix.

The first taste is sweet,
So, you hold onto it,              Carefully, softly.

Taking forgranted each bite thereafter,
Even though the peach still lay tight in your grasp.
Unmoved.

 But now, you have taken something from her.
Something she, like the peach will never get back.
So, she leaves you with a pit.
And still.
You hold her.

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3 thoughts on “Soft Spots 

  1. This is very intriguing and I enjoyed reading it.

  2. who knew Iowa was so full of spice ? really good work

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