The Dessert

A twilight bruised with indigo and rain,

The sky dissolves to jam upon the pane.

We float through memories of kitchen floors

Where time unlocks its rusted, ticking doors.

From porcelain clouds, the bruised fruit starts to fall,

No gravity to bind them at all.

They roll like marbles through the amber haze

Of half-forgotten, sun-drenched yesterdays.

A grandmother of mist stirs wooden spoons

In cauldrons made of shattered afternoon.

She folds the heavy dough of dreams and sleep

Above the violet oceans, dark and deep.

The crust arises, golden, strange, and vast,

A quilt of baked horizons from the past.

It bubbles softly, murmuring a tune,

Beneath the butter-dripping harvest moon.

One heavy bite of porcelain and air—

The taste of summers that are no more there.

The kitchen fades, the walls begin to melt,

Into the sweetest grief I’ve ever felt.