in no particular order per se. numbers included strictly for dramatic effect. this list is by no means exhaustive.
flavors of love
what emerges is a taste of her lips on mine. a stranger becomes a friend becomes a lover becomes a friend becomes a stranger, again.
the wet, golden strands of honey of her skin trickling down my fingers.
pomegranates & dark chocolate with a hint of sea salt in it.
the earth. to lay down roots in her fertile soils of truth. to awaken to scents of her fruits.
love also tastes like burnt butter & sage gnocchi. the kind she’d make for the two of us, before i’d have her for dessert.
metallic. like when i bite my own cheek, or blood oozing from a freshly picked scab.
love tastes of grief too, or is it grief that tastes of love?
salty teardrops. each one, an ocean of yearning.
intention & belonging.
like the cuts shame leaves on my lips when i explore it with my tongue.
like the bursting open of my heart when i take a bite out of my guilt.
love tastes like the skin of my own calloused hands when i kiss them with knowing & tenderness.
why the <em>fuck</em> does love taste so much like longing? like this desperate need to be seen, held, accepted, devoured, as i stand naked in my truth?
like spilled ink simmering & swirling into shapes truth assumes.
the grilled cheese i make at 2 am to put a smile on my inner child’s face. like his uncontainable delight.
fungi. these curious composters & magical metabolizers are lustful lovers, holding secrets of the true nature of being within their webs of interconnection.
इलाइची दूध और आटे के बिस्किट । (specifically after sleeping under the gaze of stars on your grandfather’s <em>diwaan</em> & walking through winding alleys with howling dogs)
like the gentle parenting of a friend after you just spilled 5 pounds of rice all over the kitchen floor.
ਸਰਸੋਂ ਦਾ ਸਾਗ ਤੇ ਮਕੀ ਦੀ ਰੋਟੀ । in them, the unmistakable taste of my grandmother’s weathered hands. stories & haunting echoes of silence upheld through slow, excruciating passage of time.
like the <em>choori</em> your ma makes for you. served best with a glass of cardamom milk, of course.
नानू के खेत की सब्ज़ी ।
The bittersweet taste of the longing that lives on my tongue when I think of going to the <em>khet</em> with Him & jumping into the tube well. the smell of goat’s milk & land that has seen a bloodline’s becoming.
a shapeshifter. what does it taste like, the hand that feeds & the hand that leaves a bruise?
tastes like love letters that a lover writes into your skin with her fingernails. the taste of the edge of her mouth — the birthplace of smiles that may disarm the most guarded of your demons.
umami. like the prayers uttered in your name that you don’t see but know are there.
the spicy heat of an argument, a misunderstanding, slow-roasting into lovemaking.
the sensory experience of the world through <em>loud, unapologetic chewing</em>.
soothing coolness of a late summer evening breeze, like lavender & rosemary ice cream.
like coffee & breakfast in bed without needing to ask for it.
a marriage of salt, fat, acid, heat, & all the ways in which they seduce each other.
love is a 5-course meal under the moonlight set to the music of a gently flowing river.
for hors d’oeuvres, the erotic tension between all your desires.
for appetizers, the slow seduction of breath into presence.
for salad, that which you have not named but yearn for the moment you are alone.
for main course, a love (& loss) that opens your eyes to love itself. love not as possession, but as initiation. as a crevice in the page to slip into. as a skin to crawl under. as a permission to devour & be devoured.
for dessert, rediscovering love which you thought was lost forever to the dead weight of old mistakes. hearing its heartbeat through your own rib cage. forgiveness.
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