She is soft sweater fruit
waiting to bulge
and see blushing flesh be devoured by me
because I am starving.

Hungry as a zombie.
Hungrier than an army
of men who have not eaten
in nine to ten years.

I am famished,
longing for something
I thought had long since vanished.

That sparkle of sweet wine
ready to be picked
and licked straight from the vine
cause she is so **** fine.

I want to envelope her
in affection,
swallow her body with mine
guarding the treasure
that I find,
a mind
which seems to see me
with the same hunger.