I remember eating out of buckets of neapolitan ice cream.
I’d draw wavy lines into the chocolate with my fork. Vanilla rejected. Strawberry rejected even though it looked beautiful. I was a child that wanted glitter on my notebooks and canvases of my paintings hung up in my room. What did I know about beauty or taste?
Slowly chocolate ice cream started tasting bitter. Charming but not sincere. I stood in the line at the ice cream machine in my college dining center. Vanilla the only flavor. I push the knob down and pour it into an empty waffle cone. Vanilla became my favorite
Until one day I tasted strawberry cheesecake ice cream.
I don’t like strawberry ice cream.
I don’t like cheescake.
But when I took a bite from your ice cream you were standing there meeting eyes with me, anticipating my reaction. It wasn’t an overbearing kind of sweet. It was gentle and patient. Soothing. I’m not sure if I liked it for its flavor or because it was yours.
In my head I’m five years old, building landscapes in the strawberry stripe of a bucket of neapolitan ice cream. I carve mountains built from fork. Ones I want to visit with you.
Our world is pink and melting.
Love,
Metacog Moon 