I'll have what she's having

I want intertwining vines of delight—nimble and light, their fibrous arms entangled in ecstasy. Give me burgundy-ribbed running down a porcelain canvas. I want succulent vesicles that ooze with passion when I sink my fangs into their fleshy red skin. Let me nibble delicate silk and crunch porous ornaments. I want musty pungence—bulbous brown earthiness caps of frailty and folly. Give me hard slivers of cracked richness, and desiccated kernels that yearn for the moisture of mouths. I want languid morsels of milk—salty and tangy, creamy and smooth, a blissful divergence upon my tongue. Bleed balsamic for me, baby.