The Fly, The Fruit, The Hand

Given face value, I want you. This sudden urge strikes at first sight. I am infatuated, needing to quench such desire. This succulent vice that drenches the senses. By chance would you notice. The constant stare, the awareness of being devoured whole. Not just by the feel of mouth but in everlasting desire I long to taste you, savoring each morsel of you. The pulp that quenches overflowing taste buds. Unknowing to the hand that sees me as utter nescience. It swats, waving around involuntary rage. An primal instinct. This selfish prophecy that goes without intellect. This urge is not only physical, it's translucent. This psychidelic euphoria that implores the need for exploration. To feel you in ways often fantasized, to escape this claustrophobic dream that confines me by everlasting thought. This feeling is inescapable, this urgency to purify myself in you. To become a part of you in ways described in biblical text, To truly die is to surrender all will, without residue of self sustaining doubt. This beckoned cry far exceeds the temporary thrill of things given at face value. Alas, I'm am splattered by the ever raging jealous hand, Deprived of the only thing I truly knew