I want to stick my fingers into the thick, sweet sap of honey.
Yearning, I press past the colony into the core of the comb.
The delicate structure crumbles where I’ve punctured it.
I disregard the demolition, I lick the nectar from my fingers and savor its sapidity.
The comb hangs broken from its branch.
Chaos and emptiness, simultaneous.
I turned on my heel and walked away on cool grass, coated with fresh dew.
You are molten honey,
The hot coal in my stomach and behind my eyeballs.