cinnamon rolls

sticky fingers. sugar on your lips. the scent tastes like pineapple-berries. inside my mouth, a sweet, soft lump finds its way downwards, from an oasis that felt like ocean.

in gastronomic delight i thirst. the sweetness burns my throat, i almost choke.

the lump, synthesized with my saliva, sprinkled with far-out dreams and topped with too vividly imagined impossible fantasies, i swallow.



This piece was originally published in Literary Limerence by Mia Alcantara.