On my table lies the first draft of a story. You embrace me with the delicious aroma of your cooking and yell at me from the infamous kitchen of sarcasm, demanding of my kisses to taste like the stars, not cookie dough. Your words sound better than the morose drivel engraved on the page and when I open my mouth, I feel moons and galaxies breezing into my mind.
My gypsy had lain unconscious in the mirror for years until you came along. I used to feel as if my life’s mission was to watch an hourglass filled with dread and poison whilst sitting on a cinnamon chair, wearing clothes sheared to slices by my own poor judgement. When I finish my story, you will know how everything changed in me the day you offered me a rabbit as a gift.
The taste of pepper on my lips will always be part of my makeup, but I will follow you into a lifelong trance of your sweet-smelling skin on mine. I promise we will be together in New York soon, lover.