I don’t eat the fig,
I lick it,
And ache for it to last,
Feeling each ridge
With the tip of my tongue,
Tasting the juice that drips out
Into my mouth,
Sweet, yet not so sweet
That I would get weary of it,
I always ache for more,
I lick those places
Where the ridges meet,
And that pin prick
That makes the whole fruit quiver
If I lick just right,
My tongue easing
Into the deepest part of it,
Where the fruit opens up
Like butterfly wings,
Spilling its essence into me.
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