Syrup -many Milk- – Trusted

You say, “Syrup. Many milk.”

Outside, the streetlight pools like a broken egg. You drink slowly. For a moment, the world is just this: sweetness diluted by tenderness, and tenderness multiplied by many. Syrup -Many Milk-

Then, the syrup. Not maple—too proud, too woody. This is golden syrup , or maybe a dark molasses that remembers the cane fields. Or better yet: a fruit syrup, boysenberry or blackcurrant, the color of a bruise at sunset. It falls from a spoon in a single, viscous rope. It does not mix. It settles . You say, “Syrup

They are poured not into a cup, but into a bowl wide as a harvest moon. “Syrup. Many milk.” Outside