I’ve tried to write you a number of times now. The title of this has changed a few times over because the words never landed quite right. I wanted them to fit into something perfect. A reflection of you but you’re not so easily reflected.
I could jump into a tirade about how I want you. I could rant about how I need you. There would be words spilled all over your thighs and between your legs. The drip from my lips would coat your nipples and run up your neck. The black ink from my pen would bleed along your jaw. I would write you underneath me and I would write me inside of you.
None of it felt right though. I don’t want it forced. You can’t be forced.
Recently I was told that one of the only substances to never go bad is honey. That there are deposits of honey that were buried with the pharaohs and were considered still good today. Thousands of years and it can still be consumed, it sounded pretty amazing. Honey doesn’t spoil and it made me think of you.
Your honey golden hair and that sticky taste of your kisses. How I could come back to them after a long time apart and they’ll still have the perfect feel against mine.
I can move my fingers through your hair and feel like I can never get them out. They’re stuck and are refusing to move. My lips too. My eyes. My body. All against you and wanting to remain.
You’re my personal taste of honey. You’ll be just as good no matter the time we spend between swallows.