I guess those peaches still be hanging near the tree. Ripe, ready to go, juicy flesh but still stream run in between thighs - that are meant to be close but they are but good things can only mean trouble when you’re listening to your peach sing that song that you love. The lullaby that makes your peach weak, is on the floor quivering waiting for your sweet cheeks.
We could’ve been great together, like the kind of relationship that makes you so happy others are noticeably jealous. We could’ve been great. But our timing was way off. And now we only “could’ve” been something.