Ever since I learned to cut my own blueberry Sunday-morning pancakes, and where to slide the plastic knife between my baby carrot fingers,
my mom would always tell me that putting too much butter on things would make my heart sick.
And as my sticky cheeks nearly scowled, I would wonder how something I loved so much could make me stop loving.
How something that only seemed to make everything better, and relentlessly melted in the little nooks of it all, could destroy me.
But now I understand.
Because the knife you were using to spread yourself into my pores is deliberately twisting into my calloused, overgrown fingers.
I’ve been thinking about the volume in the valleys of your dimples
and the density in the pauses between your words
a thickness like maple syrup
of which my mom would always tell me to measure out