Nothing is so sweet as this, even when it really isn’t
sweet, this which I let linger on the tip of my tongue, a sweet vibration I
stir up, circling the nub like a bee does in making honey, this warm moisture
that fills me up and yet I can never get enough of, sweet but not sweet, made
potent by its extraction, and how I must keep circling it to bring it out, for
me to drink. Can I get drunk on it the way I might on wine, or is it more he
way it comes and how it makes me feel when I stir it up, a draught I cannot
order up when I saddle up to a bar, but made only when I spread the limbs apart
and dive into the center of its flower, head first, my lips dripping with it,
until I fill up, yet still, always, I want more.
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