Bananas aren’t yellow, just sunlight wrapped.
Cherries aren’t red, just ripened whispers.
Apples wear their skins like tight intentions.
Plums stain hands with bruises, not purple.
Why do we hold strawberries like velvet?
Or dress our dresses in blueberry dreams?
A woman tells me she feels like peach,
soft, tender, torn, sweet around her edges.
Grapefruits aren’t pink, but the sky here.
Lemons don’t speak yellow, but lightning.
These shades belong to songs and sunsets,
not the drape of skirts, silk apricots.
Maybe names taste better, feel brighter—
a nectarine blouse, a cranberry cardigan.
Because wearing fruit sounds less brittle,
turns bodies into orchards, ripe with bloom.