He is like honey.
Eyes brown, speckled gold, like honey.
Softness as soft as pillow sleeves.

His words weave together,
spinning sentences into lullabies,
hands that make me dance to their lilting tone. 

I cut in careless and 
callously 
staccato. Incredulous all the same- 
at him. 

We speak, sometimes in harmonies and
sometimes not. 
His low murmurs, my ill placed words,
our symmetry is still found,

we rest on equal ground. 
Our hair entwined dark and light. 

I am the edge that tears childhood 
blankets sharp, 
sorry for ruin. 
We are both the needle and the thread.
He lets my tears fall on his head. 

He is still just like honey,
and I am gladder for it. 

How beautiful it is to be bittersweet. 



By Georgia Brown