written during a space of time in which i was supposed to be doing something else: yesterday or the day before, hurried and trying to pretend like i really was paying attention [unedited]

these trials, grab-dash attempts to capture your images – to share the secret that your existence performs on me – with the world. because i can’t be the only one who understands that you make the entirety of this life thick with the sweet heavy taste of hot black currant. the memory of you – sticky and suffocating – the liquid of a warm easy calm. you are my one singular perfect cup of earl grey and a fresh just-ripe orange at the end of each day. you are every last bite of unidentifiable pudding topped with that unmeasured salvation of crème fraiche.