I take a bite. The taste, it's sweet. The texture, it's crisp. I take another bite. The taste, it's grand. The texture, it's great. I take a third bite. The taste, it's old. The texture, it's the same. I take one last bite. The taste, it's gone. The texture, it's nonexistent. Why do I do this to myself? I guess that's just the way the cookie crumbles.
Perhaps we are married far to long. The words have all been said? Have I become the furniture. Or Has it become me? I offer you an apple For dessert. It is sweet and ripe It's juices flow like the Apple within the garden of Eden. They will flow down your face drenched in sweetness. But you hold it like a stone. Even as I look to the blue sky. An ocean for the white shape shifting clouds that hold no rain in their silence. I see them fascinated by me in a language that needs no words. In their silence they say everything I want to say?
The likes of you I can't describe, Yet I love to eat between your thighs. The melody you spake to me Unfolds my greatest sovereignty. I crave to quaff all of your spit, And swallow every drop of it. Don't cheat me of your tasty flesh, Those bare and supple ****** *******, Your eyes that follow my firm gaze, While we kiss and lick and misbehave. I need to feel each piece of skin, Smashing girl and boy parts over and over again. It's such a treat to eat you whole; I'm obsessed with eating 19-year-olds.