‎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. ‎ ‎