“‘Walden' is so indigestible that many hungry people abandon it because it makes them mildly sick, each sentence being an anchovy spread, and the whole thing too salty and nourishing for one sitting.” - E.B. White I want to write you a poem that tastes a little bit more like orange slices, cooked with brown sugar and covered in chocolate like you used to make every weekend that we would eat with coffee every morning when you would sleep over, slowly making our way downstairs after a long night of me reassuring you that you did in fact turn the stove off and that no, we won’t get robbed in the middle of the night. But I don’t know how to cook and much less how to write a poem that tastes as sweet as your love.