Strawberry

How strange it feels,

the weight of sweetness heavy on my tongue,

a hint of strawberry, ripe and dark,

lingering like a whisper meant just for you.

It’s the way I imagine your hands,

a gentle claiming, skin warm from the sun,

how they might travel, trailing curiosity,

through soft places, unexpected terrain,

as if I were something newly discovered,

a delicacy too perfect to bite into just yet.

There’s a taste, in waiting, like strawberries on my tongue,

a slow burn that rushes beneath my skin,

and I wonder if you feel it too,

if each passing glance builds something unseen,

something we both know but haven’t dared say aloud.

I see it in the way your gaze lingers,

not on my eyes, but on the places between—

the space just above my lips, where a shiver begins,

or the curve of my collarbone, where temptation waits,

unraveled and ready, just like me.

I imagine the press of your mouth,

the kind of kiss that leaves no room for innocence,

only the thrill of surrender, of taste,

as if you could drink me down in sips,

savor me like a forbidden indulgence,

and feel me, lingering sweet, long after you leave.

Let me be that—

the edge of desire, the bite of the unexpected,

fingers stained red like strawberries picked too soon,

not quite ready but almost,

almost enough to devour.

And when you do, finally—

when restraint is broken and the wait is over,

let it be slow,

let it be like coming home to a taste you’ve craved,

something rich, intoxicating, and utterly yours,

strawberries on my tongue,

and you in every heartbeat that follows.