Your black liquorice fingers taste like nostalgia hitting my gag reflex
as I am nauseated forwards
spitting out bile because it burns more than words;
your teeth are lemon lollipops
and your tongue and mine
lick greedily for a sugar hit
and a wince
before your fingers twist the tap
letting the water drown out your appetite;
I pull open the oven door and the smell rocks us backwards
butter makes a voyage
diffusing through the air to find the moisture of our tongues
and lubricating the crumbs of the cake
so that they fall through fingers
and we stand in a world of eyes into eyes
and hands into hands
and tongues into mouths.
And it tastes better.