Synesthesia

It's a slow tendril of the tongue, lapping,
Laving at the tender surface, only
A layer is dissolved by each attention,
Succulent desire, tends to the inner
Fire. Normally, I don't think of you while
Eating, but today, to my dismay, I
Cannot help but let my lower brain take
Helm, and it tells me to eat, sleep, want, take.
With the same inhibition, and the same
Fascination