Kirana

Feed me love

Your grandmother’s steaming hot chicken soup. The pungent rosemary recipe she stirred on the stove, when your young throat was sore and your poor head ached.

Feed me joy

Lemon meringue pie, the white whisked so quick, the light, foamy sugar dissolves like snowflakes on warm tongues. The fruit tart and sweet.

Feed me truth

Rip the roughage out of the ground, pick the peaches off the tress, I want to smell the earth in your kitchen. I want to taste the garden you tend. And know your soul is part of the soil.

I’ll set the silver with kindness and warmth. And wait patiently at your table.

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The problem with you is the blanket of love coils around your neck like bright tapestries and leather padding, keeping you warm and you try sharing this blanket with me. The problem with you is happiness falls in your laps like an apple to the ground on a chilly wither morning and you dig your white teeth in it, filling it with tender warmth and how the softness of it kisses your long hands slender, giving you all of what it possessed.

The problem with you is when you look at me the glimpse in your eyes is the same as when you look at the color of the sky on your mother’s birthday, a white yellow. The problem with you is your skin is a soft wave on water and I am the whole ocean drowning.

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Kirana

Kirana

expose my own inner layers with writing.