Agave is a f*ing sugar

I am your honey and,

despite your knowing, you my orange

to bite into you is

bitter –

your acid burns the padding of

my tongue that for months

I have let peel away, tastelessness lingers.

But your sweet fruit

and my effortless gloss syrup

would glue our palms,

our hips. I try to savor

the inner taste of you

from the remnants of agave,

that this morning fell from burnt toast

forming sweet ashy crusts at the corners of my mouth

and stickiness on my lips.

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