There are weeks I would brave a storm of strings just for a sip, oh a drop, of your molten ambrosia to coat my tongue. I’m parched and I haven’t drunk for days, no water can sooth the jagged veins of my heart.
I’d spend an eternity longing for honey, hoping not to get stung, disappointed, but never surprised, to see the red pin pricks on my arms. Slow poison chugging through my arteries, but oh, it looks so lovely, so divine, the sweet amber rush of thick honey pouring into my soul.
Your catacombs transfix me and I can’t tear my eyes away, even as the poisoned nectar overflows like a fractured dam, and golden tears glaze my pupils, trickling down my neck.
Darling, there will be days they will ravage your honeycombs. They will trample your struggles and efforts afoot, leaving the sweet nectar to run cold in the dust. And it will take months, years, to build a hive but coat yourself in the warmth of your own sweetness before you have none left to give; too few will lend you their own.