I aim for sugar dirt. Crusted in your burnt bacon. I’ll bend so far I won’t feel my big toe, stuck in salsa that you dripped down the stove just to see it travel from top to bottom like our slow touches that give us freedom to love our flavoured beauty.
Gridlocked richable;plateau paired with pineapple. Flavour sprung to the strung out planets. All popped up along the circle horizon. I’ll taste the confetti from the sun, piece together the cheese that falls from the moon. I’ll even drink the wine from a glass.
Grey problematic areas can mean the darkness of it all. Rainbow rams your orange cream smile into tea cups that sparkle salt into raw eyesight. Crayon water, it’s how jellyfish paint at the bottom of the Artic waters.
Songs, hawks, sunshine. It’s bringing me whacky, on a platter of fine china, the gold a little tacky. Sticky to my fingers, as I crack them over raw eggs, sizzling in their bubbling form, threatening to lift off pan and be magic carpet of yolk and white.
I think you’re adoorable in the outdoors, even when you turn the doorknob to come indoors. Your endoorance is somehow part of the doork in you and I adoor the way you remember how I looked standing in front of that Egyptian door; the one we had our first conversation by. We had already endoorsed one another then, and we didn’t even know it.