Kwispen

There is a hunger. It throbs from inside you with it's glowing molten core. The warmth within moves and jiggles like a golden marmalade filled balloon. Through the years you gasp at the very thought of it. Through the days you made your way closer to it’s center and cringed with delight, as if the feather was drawn down the small of your back. You kept it close to your heart. ‘I love them.’ you said to me that one time in Gibraltar – the very same summer when the sun burned your alabaster flesh and turned your blonde tresses to soft white. That age-old story of love told over and over again, you could never get away. I remember it all very well - and as the stereo played your grandmothers favorite song you stood proudly upon the table and saluted with tears streaming down your face. Your hands and sweet face. Christ-like. And when you so nonchalantly waltzed into the Kentucky Fried Chicken on Colfax street without a care in the world – I stood and looked on as you ordered that family size bucket of extra crispy, so tender and moist that it nearly blew my mind.