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.
