I was blond hair with gods for hairdressers when you circled my ironed bob clockwise and back again. A cherry picked a moment ago by your index finger and thumb, the same hand you held the glass with that evening we became
one year old.
We’re still babies in our world yet I’m ready to nestle between layers of Black Forest cake bathing in cream. We scream and sugar
is just a jar sitting on the shelf. Your favorites are pickles and sauerkraut and I think how I’d be better off in your mouth instead of mine