Resident of Earth

In the space where my heart should be, there's a peach pit. 

A tree will grow from my sternum someday and the fruit will fall each August. 

They'll be sweet and round and when the juice runs down your chin, you'll taste the strange, tangy shape of my soul. 

Your sticky fingers will have a home holding someone else's. 

You'll toss those pits to the ground without a second thought to ask me: 

"What is the meaning of life?" 

"Did you ever love someone?" 

Or 

"Would you like me to tell you a story?" 

I don't mind. 

I will go on living and dying. 

It's peach pits all the way down.