You were honey.
The way your words clung as long as they could to your tongue,
then dripped heavily onto my skin.
Like the honey sticking to the glass,
imprisoned after harvest.
I thought of all the bees that worked tirelessly for that honey.
I knew you didn’t work, you allowed that for others.
You were all unforgiving lines. The dash of your collar bones.
The dark dusting of hair on your forearms.
You were sinfully sweet, when it suited you.
Or you held a little bite, a sting.
You were from the wildest flowers.
Your hive was feral and mean.
Never to be tamed.
Not even the honeyed stinging tones of your voice.