I said before that being with you was like honey in a bowl. I was right. Now I’ve got the pot flipped over and I’m waiting for you to come out (before I had my snout in it). I suppose gravity pulls only as fast as gravity will pull. And if you are honey, then I am water. I spill. And when you come out, I’ll tell you my secret. I would have told you before, but you never asked the right question, or gave me a sure enough sign I could trust you, or even just some extra time. That’s all hogwash now. As soon as I see you roll over the edges of your container, I will invite you to the swampland of my soul where my shame resides and show you, whether or not I leave that place alone, I will show you.