Here lives lie in petals and ornate carvings. And I, I am overtaken by what remains in the lettering my fingertips trace. The flesh on the back of my neck rises in Braille, here among broken ground and still waters. I kiss the names of the sacrificed, and exit under ivory archways.
Darling, you see, your love has driven me quite mad, but I cannot help entangle myself in my muse. I want to live with you in fields of sugarcane and unkempt flowers, where this universe of fire and ice can leave us uninterrupted in our bed of leaves and dew. I can only hope to pass through the summers and springs with you, sipping on sweet tea and apricot seeds.
Papa’s house always smelled of pancake batter. Pancakes and orange and vanilla musk from his aftershave. The warm haze of the stove’s steam left me an eager five-year-old, awaiting the sound of the spatula’s spin and the sizzle of butter and cooking oil. Nothing else could beat the privilege he always gave me of topping each pancake with six chocolate chips. In all of his cooking perfection, he always managed to maintain the texture of the chocolate, so that the chips would melt on my tongue rather than in the cushion of pan-heated batter.