My tears that slope the curved hills are salted with joy and spiced with purpose. They water the songs of my skin with notes of ranged oblivion. My breath tends my internal city, cooking to perfection. Oxygen steams the veintables;my bones saturate in flavored fat
I just got into it only in the last year.
I have this weird- odd- need sensation to continue. I’ll make three things in one day. Bake cookies, make a soup and crock pot chicken. It’s nuts.
It’s like I’m catching up for all those years I didn’t touch a saucepan and raw meat.
I’m doing it to take up time. To keep me busy. Yes. And I really really am enjoying it.