If perchance to press lips blush with blood, beaded with sweat, throbbing with nerve endings, to the soft flesh and wispy,
invisible hairs of a peach.
If flagrant in the demonstrations of ecstasy, it was only because I couldn't pretend otherwise, rendered helpless in the sweetness and wetness of the nectar.
If the heat were an illusion then my breath said otherwise, the condensation being gas, being liquid, but most importantly,
being.
If I could be convinced of the infinite then it could only be in this moment, when I tenderly so
ate you whole.