The world arrives like ice cream in a cone,
a fragile balancing act of sweetness and gravity,
pressed into our hands
as if forever could be held.
First, the tongue knows only joy:
strawberry mornings,
vanilla laughter,
the dusk of chocolate nights.
Each flavor a hymn,
each lick a promise,
each moment melting faster
than we wish.
But the cone—
ah, the cone is never flawless.
A hidden fracture,
drip threading down our wrists,
reminding us:
what delights will also stain.
We tilt,
we hurry,
we try to rescue the sweetness,
yet time runs quicker than our hunger.
And isn’t love the same?
A freeze when it lingers too long,
an ache when it vanishes too soon—
still, while it lasts,
we are children again,
mouths wide to wonder,
hearts burning to keep
what was never meant to stay.
Silence falls
in the final bite:
crumbs, a sugared aftertaste,
a grief dissolving on the tongue.
Yet even here,
in the after-sweetness,
we remember—
and the memory remembers us.
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