rocklove

Most of them were rotting peaches. Their delicate skins draped and buckled over insides reducing themselves to a warm stinking pulp. They clung to their trees well into autumn and hung there like bitter reminders that time was running out. She was a maple leaf. Time only served to strip away the more blinding aspects of her beauty, revealing the subtle nuances that lay in wait. She was the reason I cleaned bed pans rather than grease traps like everyone else my age. In the common rooms they crowded around oak wood tables, sipping gin and clutching bridge cards between brittle manicured nails. Their necks were strung with clouded pe