You are
sweet peach slices in syrup.
French vanilla with Butterscotch.
No spoon in the house,
I'll just tip the bowl back
and let you slide
down my throat.
The taste of perfume
behind your ear
is my fatal
ice cream headache
screaming through
my brain
as I hold on
and syrup runs
over my chin and drips
down my chest.
Let me close
eyes till the world
comes back.
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