flavorful and wet, dripping down my chin as I enthusiastically bite;
like a Caravaggio painting.
I cannot put you out of my mind.
Every time I turn around, you are there
confronting me with the possibilities of you.
My body reacts to your voice; I long to hear it.
My brain is stimulated by your chatter;
I long to partake.
How can I say that
I’ve fully lived, without
having tasted those lips?
Touching your skin to know
that you’re real.
You are not.
You are imagined, and I am
disturbed for having conjured you up;
for flawed as you are,
you may be perfect for me.