The Vibe
Visual: The fuzzy skin of a fruit under neon lights.
Scent: Over-ripe nectar and cold night air.
The Story
We are the fruit that bruised early.
Look at the fuzz.
It’s messy. It’s static electricity made of sugar.
This bag is a peach that refused to close its eyes.
Why sleep?
Sleep is for the inorganic.
Sleep is for things that don't feel everything at once.
We are awake because we are too sweet to be quiet.
We are awake because we are waiting to be picked,
or maybe just waiting to rot beautifully in the moonlight.
It’s pink.
Not the polite pink of a ribbon,
but the raw, flushed pink of a fever.
Inside, it holds your secrets like a pit.
Outside, it’s soft enough to trick the world into thinking you are harmless.
Someday She is the peach.
Alive. Awake. And dripping with dreams.
(Carry this when you want to feel texture in a flat world.)
