I love the nectar of your peach.
I love to taste the juice from your peach.
I adore your peach.
I love how your eyes roll in the back of your head as I devour your peach.
I love slipping my tongue deep inside the peach as far as I can.
I ache for your peach.
I love to spell your name with my tongue as I appreciate the peach.
I love how you moan, shake, and quiver as I devour your peach.
I’m haunted by your peach.
I love it when your peach is smothering me as you move your hips.
I really love your peach.
I can eat that peach every day.
Books laid zig zag on Didi’s rustic table.
Metaphors, characters, and words of charm blend like a frozen rainbow.
Words are spell checked, proof read, and the endless reviews are timeless.
Once was “aspiring” now “is.”
Self publishing avenue is full of gravel and dust.
Signs are written in childlike crayons.
Adventures live in her mind and within the pages.
The brutal truth is underneath your skin.
It’s hidden in the colorful part of the canvas.
Your sexuality is hidden and exposed to those of your past.
Your love is open but hidden in the present.