The Fig

Deep purple, almost black
a blue bloom clings on
to the luscious figs,
an invitation to touch.
He chooses one; then carefully
tears it, revealing crimson
into sienna flesh, slick with sugar
and offers it to me.
Soft sweetness touches my lips
invades my mouth
lingers on my tongue,
forcing my eyes to close;
I swallow on a moan.

About emmylgant

Cloud watcher and dreamer sometimes wise, often foolish, but I am what I am.
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