They tell me it is not entirely unlike the intensity of breaking crème brulee—a quarter-second of guilt, desire, both
because the cauterized top will bend to you, and because you destroy something whole. And I think: they have not
visited your grave, if they use dessert as a way to grasp what you did. If they had felt with their knees the living
grass, they’d know it is not entirely unlike anything, would be lost in the words, as we’re meant to be, in this language
we created. This labyrinth we escape into when words to ask for
