The smell is a heavy floral rot

The smell is a heavy, floral rot,

a secret hidden behind the carton of eggs.

I found the peaches in the bottom drawer,

slumping against each other in a plastic bag.

They aren't fruit anymore.

They’re a dark, fermented weeping,

a sticky syrup pooling in the corners

like a mistake you let sit until it turns to liquor.

I remember when I bought them.

The sun was high and the skin was velvet.

Now I’m scrubbing the glass with a sponge,

wondering how much of my life is just

waiting for things to get sweet.