Life itself is an act of consumption.
Lips are everything. A cherry, red
To burst on touch, unable to contain
Its tenderness, perhaps… a confection
Glazed with sight, served so sparingly,
Two mouthfuls of indulgence.
A waking warmth,
A fresh loaf of sleepy head beside me now,
A woken rest as soft as fresh-baked bread,
For love itself is a servant of consumption.
The first line, and inspiration for the poem, was actually from Eddie Redmayne in a sci-fi film, the name of which I have entirely forgotten. It was the take-away feature of the entire thing.