by Alyssa McCauley
Sweetness comes in the same gaze as it began,
engulfed by the purples, oranges, and pinks,
before the transition into dusk.
Sweetness comes amongst the hair raising night wind,
swiftly dancing along the skin.
Sweetness comes one day, finally,
under the warmth of sunlight,
where admiration for every freckle,
wrinkle, and
misplaced hair is given.
Sweetness comes in a sharp warmth,
which weaves through the body like lightning;
first, through the legs, and then into the
tummy, chest, and forearms.
A shallow pool of saliva
deepens into a pond;
Sweetness comes in an urge to swallow.
Sweetness comes in language;
a variety of vernaculars.
Lust creates a linguist;
a scientist of the vibrations,
formed by perfectly wet lips.
Sweetness comes in the quiet moments,
stripping us of all vegetation,
providing a glimpse at how sweet life can really be.
A life where we are:
no longer seeking more,
and no longer falling behind,
but where instead,
falling into ruffles of fabric,
enfolded.
Sweetness comes and is best when it is shared;
this is the meaning of it all.
No matter where it is partaken in,
no matter where it is given,
when sweetness is shared,
nothing else matters.
And, for once,
silence is okay.