Passion Fruit Poem by Styles Blackwell

Between food and sex, it's difficult to decide which of these pleasures we enjoy most. Washed my hands, I'm a good host. Besides, eating with my hands is the part i enjoy most. The flavors spilling over, dripping, running down my wrist. The potency and aroma, only one thing smells, and taste, like this. Your lips; soft, fleshy, texture, the juices running down my lip - Drip, drip. The taste, I'll suck, lick, bite or sip; the clear liquid so thick, your mainstream, runs quick. Concave crevasses, my fingers still fit. The colors of the flesh, delight, changing shapes, move and shift. Fuzzy little peaches, mangos wild, for fruits like this. Taste of heaven, leaves a stain that sticks. Without the tender fruits of your loins; none of this would exist.