Honeyed Distance

I found the jar in the back of the cupboard—

honey, crystallized, stubborn,

The lid stuck like a grudge.

You bought it at that roadside stand

where the woman called everyone “darlin’”

And you laughed like you deserved it.

︿﹀

I ran the jar under hot water,

watching the gold loosen, slow.

It smelled like summers that didn’t worry

about rent or silence or who texted first.

︿﹀

I tasted a little off the spoon.

Sweet, yes—

and then that tiny burn at the back of my throat

like the memory had teeth.

︿﹀

I hate how my body remembers you

before my brain can argue.

A song in a grocery aisle,

your brand of tea on sale,

the exact shade of mustard on a stranger’s scarf—

And suddenly I’m sixteen seconds away

from calling you.

︿﹀

I spread the honey on toast anyway.

The bread tears in one corner,

uneven, like I rushed it.

I chew and think of your mouth saying my name,

soft as syrup,

and how sweetness can still sting

when it’s too far to reach.

︿﹀

There’s a little sticky spot on my finger

I can’t quite wash off.

Maybe it’ll fade later.

Maybe I’ll just keep noticing it.