The Dessert

The kitchen clock begins to melt and bend,

As porcelain plates float softly to the floor.

We’ve reached the place where afternoons ascend,

Through peeling skies and an unhinged door.

Upon the table rests a painted dream—

A geometric slice of rose and snow.

A floating reef of strawberry and cream,

Suspended in a glassy undertow.

The crust is made of crumbled memory,

Of summers baked in ash and violet light.

The velvet center hums a lullaby,

Of velvet shadows stretching through the night.

I lift a silver fork that bends like glass,

To taste the stillness where the seconds freeze.

The ruby fruit begins to softly pass,

Like bleeding sunsets melting through the trees.

And as it dissolves upon a wandering tongue,

The ceiling opens to a deeper blue.

We taste the songs that time has never sung,

And dream of worlds we never quite outgrew.