peaches only fall when they're ripe
I sat under the tree and breathed, slow and deep. It was your scent: peaches, dirt, a sunset-baked sky. I would catch you here sleeping sometimes, as the sun slowly sank over the fields, the air all warm and swollen with summer, insects too lazy to move fast. Your back would be leant back against the trunk, the line of your throat facing the sky, eyes closed, smiling.