The color peach tastes like it sounds; sweet, delicate and juicy.
It feels like a butterfly's wings when they brush against your arm, or the tickle of a cat's fur. It even feels like the fuzziness of an actual peach, soft enough to be pleasant, but rough enough to remind you that you hold a piece of nature in your hands.
It looks like that curious shade of pink that sometimes appears on the horizon just after the sun disappears. It looks like the shade of color your eyelids appear when you lift your head to the sun with your eyes closed...only cleaner and clearer. It looks like the shade a baby's freckles sometimes appear...new and fresh, soft and distinct.
It sounds like the distant singing of birds in a meadow, or the tinkling of a wind chime on a breezy day. It could sound like the buzz of a hummingbird's wings, or the brush of a fuzzy blanket on your hands.
It smells like peaches...dirty ones, still honeyed from the fields and sunlight and open air. It smells like beautiful perfume that reminds you of flowers. It smells like summer. If it was a tangible thing, it would be a flower. It smells like fresh rain or dew. I love the color peach, because it makes me feel content.
YOU ARE READING
In Which I Bare My Heart
Non-FictionA journal, A diary, A conversation with myself, A soliloquy, All entirely unedited and original. The tempestuous thoughts of an old soul romantic.
