His words were like grandma’s jam -

Sweet, orange peach simmering in golden sunlight

Echoes of an endless time that had yet to come

On certain mornings, while the robin trilled a rose melody,

She would dip her shiny butter knife into the ripe jam

And let the preserved fruit coat her heart with its fragrance

With her pinky held high, she would spread the warm jam

Onto a slice of brown pumpernickel bread

Releasing her breath only after she had smeared all of it on

She would lick the knife to taste all of the potent jam

So as not to waste any, right? Or to fully immerse herself in him,

She claimed it was irresistible to swirl her tongue in the fruity jam

As it danced against the metallic silver of her butter knife

But she shouldn’t be so greedy, mama said

Spread it out, let it melt, savor the taste forever

On those days, it was sweet and it sank comfortably into the dough

When she ate it, her eyes watered and she would devour it whole

But there were days less sweet -

If she opened the glass jar and the sweet aroma did not envelope her,

She knew it was because his appetite for her had gone sour,

And yet she still dipped her shiny butter knife into the sea of jam

With her pinky held limp she let it fall messily,

She let juice splash everywhere, all over her hair and her vanilla sweater

And she let it stain her white countertops with splatters of desperation

The knife, coated in ripe jam, would still scoop and smear

But the once shiny, reflective utensil had borne its wear

Scraping the pumpernickel toast as she layered it in glutinous jam

She fell into its self-destructively sweet aroma

Even though its taste, heart-wrenchingly bitter, held her back

No longer would she fervently lick the jam off her butter knife

Still, she let her hopeful naivety reign

As she pressed the knife and its helpless lover against her cheek

Hoping the peach would melt into her skin, so that

At least if she couldn’t have him

She could still imagine that she did.