I think about all the melted chocolate, all the stained purses. 

I think about the intricacies of naming. Calling it something. 

Call it dark or white or milk. Call it almond and honey. Traces of coconut. 

Call it pinched in sea salt. 

I think about use.

I think about naive pillows, not knowing the weight of heads. 

I think about unlearning the alphabet just to start something over. 

Sound out the words again. Give attention where it is due.

I learned intentionality in the first grade, forgot it by sixth. 

I think about house plants, how loyal they are. How they would never unlearn the fundamentals of sunlight just for the sake of beginning again. 

I think about origins and Michigan.

I think about oval eyes and whipped cream lips. 

I think about distinct voices. How each is a flavor. 

I think about the night I sampled yours. A spoonful of rare, astringent honey. 

The blooming of frankincense trees in Israel. The Dead Sea in my throat. 

I think about the different varieties of love. How many can fit in one person? 

I think about sleeping without covers. 

I think about the music of simplifying worry into bed sheets that can be stripped away or tucked far beneath a mattress. 

I think about my scarred knees and how, if anyone asks, 

I’ll tell them a story that begins with a shattered snow globe.