The taste of Love
The work season is over and I have returned home.
Outside my window the city churns with the same ragged beat it pulsed when last I was home. Sirens wail. Traffic howls. The sound of gunshot mixes with ship horns and a thousand birds compete for the insects that outnumber the humans 100,000 to 1.
I have spent my first days back in the company of those who mean most to me. Relearning how to be human. How to socialize. How to be tender. Understanding. Intimate. These are skills which have no use where I’ve been. Are, in fact, a detriment.
They don’t really go away, they just get stored like grandmas jam or pickled and canned, then put on a shelf for later use. Now I open the jars slowly, careful not to mix the sweet with the sour. Careful not to overindulge. Savoring the effects of each bite.
The taste of love. The scent of joy. A texture of hope. Another helping of faith, please. Wash it down with passion. Then rest in peace. Then feast in desire. Now sleep.
Soon, the jars will be empty and I will have filled myself with enough to harvest ten times over if necessary.
It may be necessary. One last time. Not today. Today I refill my cup and celebrate my homecoming.
Image by Kelsey Knight.