A weird little something I wrote:
When I am not in love, which was a short period of time when I was 5, I eat butter from the table. On a little saucer warmed by the August heat, it trembles at my touch and conformes to the prints on my forefinger.
I pinch off a little more than "just enough to satisfy" and I make sure I am alone. I bring the solid, liquid to my lips and gently, firmly press the cream into my mouth. At first I don't taste I just feel the smooth, the melting. Then it slides to my cheek and I begin to taste it.
I relish in the beauty of it. It tastes like swinging on the tire in the tree out back and it tastes like the rain on the window and it tastes like being young enough to run through sprinklers naked.
My eyes close automatically. It slides down my throat and it is now, forever, a part of me.
I do not know at the time, but I will come back to this butter feeling again and again. Yes, again and yes, again.