Like sweet baklava,
sitting on a plate,
tempting decadence,
between thin layers.

Light and airy and opaque,
just like phyllo dough,
slowly I remove the top,
seeking out the flesh inside.

With deft touches of tongue,
sampling the flavors,
honey sweet, buttery smooth,
a hint of rose and orange.

I continue exploring her layers,
my dessert, my sweet, my all,
when finally there are none left,
revealing the pure nectar.

Quickly I drink from the fountain,
rehydrating, invigorating, growing,
all consuming, fed and drunk,
I am satiated, by her.