You wait,
for it to be perfect.
Let it sit on the kitchen counter,
bathed in the sunlight through the stained glass windows.
The skin gets softer,
you imagine how beautiful it will be,
your teeth will sink into the tender flesh,
juice dripping down your chin, staining your shirt.
Today, you walk over to it,
but it's too late.
It's caved in on itself,
flies making its core a home.
melted into the granite,
and leaking onto the linoleum.
Georgia peaches always ruin,
childish expectations,
and the illusion of patience.