I once had a slice of Africa. A distinct beauty, radiant.
So pure internally one bite would satisfy my sweetooth for weeks,
And weaknen my knees from the taste of her candied delight.
Not dressed with layers of molten deception,
But a shade of perfection, crafted and sliced with an unsteady hand.
Suprisingly not delicate,
Just intricate. Meticulously dancing through my stomach,
Leaving cravings inside and smiles outside.
Had I chewed longer my addiction would have blossomed into insanity,
But with disregard for my mothers lessons, I barbarically scarfed down her evanescence, Licking my fingers and bragging of my lack of etiquette.
Instead of laying a napkin across my lap, grabbing a fork and tall glass of milk to enjoy the blessing of taste,
Her consistancy, and the joy stolen from each morsel I devoured.
This slice had saved me.
But before I could exhale she was gone.
I ate too fast..
The rush of sugar retreated into my head with twice the speed it entered my stomach. Just black memories of what could be.
Or what could have been.
Oh how that slice was right.