I see myself as a fruit vert and I like it, I honestly feel flattered to say it and I’m proud of it as well.
All of the fruit vert are hard to bite and early to find; they are keen green with small crimson spots which is pretty sexy I may say.
Once you see it you want to grab it, to squeeze it, to caress it and to smell its greenish moisturing texture.
CRUM! the noise is shivering like a feather strolling on a woman’s milk-draining-pear. A mixture of tender and harshness just like my past, my ancient prototype..
Je suis un fruit vert! Et que c’est beau à dire et à prononcer.. it melts on the mouth but it is hard to digest. It also might get stuck on the throat and cannot be swallowed; it might suffocate you, it might stop her milk-draining-pear from growing up, so it might kill your ancient lust.
Oh mon amour noir, mon appétit flambant! J’ai fumé tous les cigares ce soir mais je ne me sens plus le tabac…I inhale and exhale a childish air, a bubble of immature and hairless ashes, a flamboyant breath.
It was born at the dawn and shall die in late autumn. It shall have an early puberty but will soon wane like the ashes of the nighty-mood cigares, like the vanilla pouder melting in the tip of every tongue.
All the fruits verts come once and all the mouths want to suck the sugarless hard skin of that crop, all of them, and I like it, I honestly feel flattered to say it and I’m proud of it as well.