I don’t exactly remember being in love with you, but I distinctly recall getting powdered sugar all over my face. I can see my fingers in white soot, and tasting like honey. It was such a deed that took me into a playland of guilty pleasure. I divined childlike syrups from this fountain of joy luck.

What can I make of it now?

There is a desolate dune that bears the shape of a buried baked good. Toasting its sands until they are bitter and speckled with burnt crust and peeling skin flakes. Goading the tastebud’s talent for tracking tickles of the flesh. Warning me, the withered walls wane while waiting. This den in the dessert drains like candlewax in heat.

What are you to me?

Stale. in the corner of a wrinkled package. I remember you felt like flightless kisses on my skin that could be passed by the touch of a finger. Your image could be shaped and dissipate at once in a puff of dust. But I do not remember being in love with you. Only that love was lost.