everything ends up honeyed

Celest Avila

One summer, they meet with freshly emptied hearts and tentatively open minds. The days of sun are spent together with laughs and sugary words. Squeezing paint bottles and love notes on corners of canvases. It’s all syrupy and sticky and saccharine, never apart and always together, like a bee in love with its blossoming flower. Kisses on peachy pink cheeks, gummy like a finger in a jar of honey. Then — one has to go, just for a little while. Their bowls of kisses that they would exchange daily now are kept, held onto until they are back together again, sitting, waiting, rotting. Are things different now? Are we different now? Are you different now? Do you feel the same? The same. Same laugh, same heart, same words. They are better now, they pinky promise — kind of. Teardrops, moonlight, days spent yearning. A caterpillar transforms within its chrysalis. Flowers wilt and die and nearby petals erupt. Leaves take on a new color and drop from their wooden homes. The scent of fear, or rather heartbreak, bottled like a perfume. Every reunion is worrisome, but everything ends up honeyed. Everything is okay. For now. Until when? Don’t know. For now, there’s a bowl of kisses, until next time. 

The honeybee wish

es there was more — just a few

more                                         There is no time