The Dessert

A porcelain slice suspended in the void,

Where lemon-light bleeds soft through heavy air.

The crust is made of hours we destroyed,

A golden sand no footprint lingers near.

Below the plate, a sea of mercury,

That stirs and ripples with a silent tongue,

Reflecting skies that never learned to be,

And songs the summer never quite has sung.

The meringue peaks—a range of ivory cloud—

Drift slowly past the edges of the mind,

Swaddled in whispers, delicate and proud,

Leaving the warmth of waking far behind.

A fork descends through velvet, tart and deep,

Unlocking chambers rusted by the years.

We taste the bittersweet of half-a-sleep,

And watch the citrus dissolve into tears.