Honey

There is a strange feeling of love as it comes slowly dripping off the ceiling in butter and honey, in oozing rain drops hitting hands and fingertips and sometimes toes. It is a strange sensation of catching something that will slide down the corner of an eye, the tip of a nose, the edge of a lip, as it tumbles back down into certainty between the space. and it dangles there on the edge of the air and the ground, slowly creeping into where no hand can touch it, where no love can move, the stiff anticipation of every word to begin the motion of another heart, before it is ripped off the layers and the seams of our most well made clothes, because it became too sticky in something that was once clean.