So, there's this fig
In my fruitbowl, almost purple,
Posing atop apples and a mango,
Just being beautiful
And begging to be touched.
It bursts with promise;
If I split it open - oh -
Unmistakably labial lusciousness
will spill out and I will have to ****
my sticky fingers like an infant
at the ******, tugging
oh so gently with an eager, warm, wet tongue,
Pursed lips pulsing
where the juicy flesh meets dewy, fragrant skin.
I bear witness to this fruit's fragile moment of sheer perfection,
And my honest, overwhelming lust
For tender flesh.
