We Could Be A Still Life

Too often I think of your mouth on someone else. Tasting them at first, biting them as soon as you know they want to be bitten. Too often I want to be your fruit. And not the fruit sitting in the bowl with the other round globes, us eying each other, judging each others skin and texture, the scent of our juices comingling in an aroma that unhides our ripeness.  I want to be the fruit laid out on the table with a stark shaft of light beating down on me. I want to be painted over a long period of time. I want to lay completely still, motionless, until you decide to move me and are finished.