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FIG
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.
does anyone drink tea anymore?
or pick up what fell on the floor?
three-second rule no longer?
selfied self-image now stronger?
being left to our smart devices
such coloured, fruitbowl choices, or
wardrobe change for inner voices?

— The End —