I sit with the scent of you an ephemeral touch in my fallen skin. You might have lived once, in my senses, but you live forever, in my memory.
Your fiesta is as good as the one I cook on sunny days. I am a mere mortal when it comes to you, a fallen human, a fallen angel, a devil-may-care.
You blend into me seamlessly, stitched together with consummate ease, a mere delicacy which is ripe for the taking. I lounge about in ease, but you make things difficult.
You are a duck cooked for Thanksgiving, an apple truffle pie baked to goodwill by unsuspecting hands. you are a dumpling sorted by and picked for eating on Sundays.
You are kinda cute, whatevar you do.
You cook and I eat on rainy days.
Summer nights will always remind me of your tanginess, your sweet crispiness, and your #relationship goals.
Our sorrow isn’t real. It’s just a fallacy.