I had never tried honey before,
the sweet tang
slopping along my tongue.
I’d never felt your hand
flowing around my waist
until your wrists connected,
locked me into place.
I took a few mouthfuls,
you’d rattle the spoon
into my mouth
and I’d streak it off,
the viscous orange gloop
like a strange toothpaste.
People use honey
as a term of affection
but we said it’s hackneyed,
a cloying label.
Now whenever I call you
honey I always think
of that time in your kitchen,
the half-empty jar.
Dec 29, 2015
Dec 29, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
I had never tried honey before,
the sweet tang
slopping along my tongue.
I’d never felt your hand
flowing around my waist
until your wrists connected,
locked me into place.
I took a few mouthfuls,
you’d rattle the spoon
into my mouth
and I’d streak it off,
the viscous orange gloop
like a strange toothpaste.
People use honey
as a term of affection
but we said it’s hackneyed,
a cloying label.
Now whenever I call you
honey I always think
of that time in your kitchen,
the half-empty jar.
Written: December 2015.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Please do read my previous poem 'Flow', because I feel that piece perhaps triggered a new phase in my writing. All feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
NOTE: Many of my older pieces will be removed from HP at some point in the future.
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