warm, moist Brownies, fresh from the oven,
their tantalizing aroma wafting through the air,
and you can't help but lick your lips.
(NO ONE CAN HATE BROWNIES! and moist comes together with it SO YOU CANT HATE THE WORD MOIST EITHER! dont mind me :P)
The hum of the fan is a familiar melody.
I lie with patience, waiting, I enjoy the song.
I close my eyes and I let my thoughts drift.
A sweet aroma fills me up with intoxication.
My cue that you’re almost done.
I sneak a peek and it’s mesmerizing,
the flush of your skin,
the rise of your flesh.
I get so excited watching you
come to an end.
Fresh from your performance,
I am gentle as I take you into my palm,
warmth radiates throughout my body.
My mouth waters with anticipation.
I take my time putting you in my mouth,
you are so moist, I can’t help myself.
Pure pleasure in how you always manage
to be firm on the outside yet soft on the inside.
A sweet and familiar friend on my tongue.
It’s amazing that it only takes ten minutes for the cookies to be done.
I had been running in the heat for an hour with no water. When I got home I quickly grabbed a cup and filled it with water and ice. My lips felt moist under the waterfall of water. I feeling I had thought I'd never feel again. A feeling nonexistent in the previous torment I went through. My dry throat became moist and I thought I was in heaven. Then I filled another cup...
Making the Most of Moist
My mother had two signature dishes: boiled brussel sprouts, and pineapple cake.
When she boiled brussel sprouts, the entire house filled with the smell of decay. My sister and I held our noses and denied the now puke-green mush. We much preferred her pineapple cake.
My mother would upend an entire can of crushed pineapple into the cake batter. This was to make sure it wouldn't be dry. To keep it moist.
Yes, it was moist.
It was not a wet blob of green sludge, and it was our only other option.