Of all the honey in the world, yours is the only one I can keep eating, the one I'll lick until I sweat more of the same. Until I can smell you when you're gone.
Of all the honey I have tasted and of all the sweetness that exists, I have been sickened by the one I have not tasted from you, the one that has embarrassed me like summer itself.
Disgusting if it is not yours.
You are the good, my good mornings; me covered in honey at dawn and still sticky when you're gone. Drained.
I expect to lick until I go crazy, until I use up all my tongue. It flows with the perfect rhythm.
Know, taste, go up and come back a thousand times. Memories are to what we know together, what we are not doing when I remember.
I remember the good honey, the day I tasted it, the one I became obsessed with, the one I have wanted to repeat every day.
Pure honey, all for me.
I like to imagine, it's what I do best and I choose to stay there because it's a safe place that I control from here. That's why sometimes I'm afraid of the enormity of reality, but I also like the contrast.
I am experiencing the explicitness of my emotions in words.