Suppose I were to eat youI should probably begin with the fingers, the cheeks and the breasts yet all of you would tempt me, so powerfully spicy as to discompose my choice.

While I gobbled you up delicacy by tidbit I should lay the little bones ever so gently round my plate and caress the bigger bones like ivory talismans.

When I had quite devoured the edible you (your tongue informing my voice-box) I would wake in the groin of night to feel, ever so slowly, your plangent, ravishing ghost munching my fingers and toes.

Here, with an awkward, delicate gesture someone slides out his heart and offers it on a spoon, garnished with adjectives.

By Chris-Wallace Crabbe