I could eat love

(Details of) Eve by Dutch artist Hendrick Goltzius, 1613

I’ll serve it in big bowlfuls of syrup to bedazzle peaks of crisp, white yogurt to soothe you out of bed in the mornings.

And I’ll grill it—with a heavy press and all the might of my emerging forearm on thicky, juicy bits of sourdough until it winces and moans in your ear.

I’ll lay it flat like sheets of carefully stretched out pasta dough before I slap it with whispers of our time together spent playing a sort of hide-and-seek. Where we reveal what makes us human just enough to still want and wrap away parts of ourselves we’d like to sanitise. Give it a burning 90 degree hygiene wash along with a course scraping of the sand that lines the distance between us till we get to a sort of starchy glue that doesn’t let us stay or leave. And I’ll bundle it up in grainy, herby, zesty pesto made sour from the dreams we’d thought of together when we spooned our backs on the carpet and pulled down the walls of practicality.

I’ll borrow time. So that I could go on eating. With breaks in the middle.

Like you do at one of those eight-course menus with names that you can’t pronounce, ingredients that muddle into one another and wine that all starts to taste the same after glass five. How it seemingly lasts for hours that slinky down the steps of our staircases into days and nights, leaving just enough space for us to touch what we want to say and immediately retreat as the server comes up to us to fold away our napkins again.

I’d let it get messy.

I’ll slurp away the figs we grew in our garden over the heatwave in the summer. And I’ll take a big bite into the bitter oranges, if only to clean our palette as we smell the coffee grounds that hold our memories. Each one different, uneven, and still the same.

I’d save some.

In the palms of my hands as delicately peeled almonds to snack on as I’d step out on a sunny winter afternoon. And as leftovers that taste warmer and cozier when I need to regulate my breath alongside you.

I’ll keep it close to me. Like a chewy, nutty protein bar on long flights back home. And that piece of sugar free dark chocolate that satiates me till the next time our eyes lock in but not more.

I want it all over me, like a good dunk into ice-cold water to wake me up in a blanch. And I want it neatly stacked in the corners of my pantry cupboard where I could reach for it without a glance.

I’ll leave myself a little hungry, intuitively. And I’ll pray for the minds that prepared it when I’m done.

I’ll crave it buttered, sautéed and glazed with hot honey crumbs and I’ll watch it pool as it melts like gelato under the hot sun.

I’ll bring you spoonfuls to taste and share sips from my mug.

And I’ll make sure that there will always be just enough.