Beet crumbles clinging to the hand in mine brush off familiarly between our fingers.
A sight for sore eyes evokes memories of a time where calloused hands created palettes, wroughting elements together over the canvas of faultless white platters. The pang through my soul twinges inward at the pruneyness of my nitrile stifled hands, echoing stymed passion. I envy how you still get to curate palates wholesomely from the roots.

My watch chimes over reminiscent conversation admonishing us of our obligations.

I like to think that in another stage of another life our passions will cross again.  Just as I hope it will in this one.