ello, jello

i’m not slipping on warm butter anymore, not wrestling the butterflies in the projection room trading those slick fingers for stolen popcorn kisses

to be frank, that’s who this new girl is – it’s futile forgetting the flecks of carmel in her freckles – I don’t even know what her fingers feel like but the warmth in her lowered gaze is familiar… I taste it in the tart slice of her cranberry macadamia pie… help yourself, she said last night, slowly sliding me her butter knife