Impatience peels from your voice like chocolate shavings –
thin, dark and tenuous with an aftertaste of sweetness,
an intoxicating allure that piques my curiosity glands.
“It hasn’t come yet” is the statement, but the subtext,
citrus-sharp, like lemon zest, is unmistakable:
“Why?” it begs, “Where is it?”
Lemon-chocolate seduces my senses;
my answer is the crackling sheen of crème brûleé:
“it’ll come. Be patient.” I know you sense it,
the warm, creamy subtext waiting beneath your hovering spoon.
Two more days you’ll live in the saccharine souring of impatience,
Two more days I'll cool behind my crumbling crust.
For now, silence gushes over our tongues –
ice water cleansing our palates as we wait for more.