A peach

My Dearest Love,

I am sitting here bored to tears. Since I have returned to my childhood home with my father, the separation from you has been insufferable. My skin aches for your touch again and I cannot wait for your divorce from that dreadful woman Queen Catherine. Speaking of which, you should see the new cook we hired, she bears a striking resemblance to the Queen. Cook has procured the most enchanting fruit. She calls it a peach.
It is a soft and succulent fruit to be sure. The velvety flesh that surrounds the lush surface is covered with a layer of short, snow-white hairs. I could not resist bringing the ripe, plump treat to my lips. As I bite down breaking the soft fleshy skin, the juices of the fruit explode into my mouth with such sweet seduction. I must confess I was greedy as I licked the sugary heaven of it’s nectar from my fingers. My new found lust for this delicacy found me devouring its amber flesh most hastily. I closed my eyes remembering how I was captured by the aroma; it leaves such a soft sweet perfume.
Have you heard more from Cardinal Wolsey regarding the proceedings? Catherine is never going to make this easy, and I know this. Forgive me love, for I know I should address her as Queen Catherine. I just cannot wait to provide you the male heir you so richly deserve. I feel myself wasting away like the dry seed of this peach. It’s hard and wrinkled once out of its soft delicate yet protective casing. It's hue is a dark mauve, not at all the light and youthful amber of the fleshy, edible fruit. This is such torture, this distance from you. I count the days until you call me back to court. Although this peach maybe sweet, the delightful embrace of your strong arms encircled around me is what I long for.


Love always your servant,
Anne Boleyn

© Copyright 2012 Melitta Calael (UN: poprouge at Writing.Com). All rights reserve