With a lick of the spoon,
your toes curl.
The taste on your tongue,
your senses heighten.
The warmth down south,
the feeling builds.
With the last spoonful of Creme Brulee,
you climax and fall off the chair.
Poetry | Stories | Photography
With a lick of the spoon,
your toes curl.
The taste on your tongue,
your senses heighten.
The warmth down south,
the feeling builds.
With the last spoonful of Creme Brulee,
you climax and fall off the chair.