The first time was a blue flame. You know, the kind that burns low, enough to cook, but not enough to burn. I was too old, even then, but young enough to not yet know better. My lips met yours, surprised that Sweden could produce such luxurious delights. But then again, you blended a little taste from the Middle East, didn’t you? A little bit of spice goes a long way. So we were there, and your toes curled, to my lips and I made you gasp without undressing your emotions.
The flames grew hotter after that, and soon, I was getting scorched without doing much cooking at all. I remember the time you turned your back to me, pressed yourself against my desire, and dared me to say no. I should have, but by then you knew how to caramelize my resolve.
Perhaps it was when your hips first pressed against me that you turned you heart away. I knew better, by then, but the taste was sweet against my lips. You’d become my comfort food, and my weight melted away as I took you in. Yours did too, because what I prepared you could not stomach.
There have been others since you. Some were sweet, others bitter, but none tasted as sweet against my tongue as the first taste of you. Sometimes, I wonder if brown sugar is addictive.