let me do the sweetest things to you
let me do the sweetest things to you
My precious sweet, let me bring you to the honey.
To the dizzying altitude of the comb,
where the air hums thick with golden heat.
A sudden vertigo of wings,
a seductive indulgence in the open throat of the bloom.
Feel the cascading rush,
the sudden sting of life vibrating against the wind.
Elevating, rising into the fierce, heavy sun—
an endless, rushing rhythm of the swarm,
gathering the wild nectar, over and over again.
The scent of it strikes the oldest nerve—
a crushed-velvet weight of dark summer fruit
and heavy, weeping pollen,
coating the tongue before the mouth even parts.
We are trembling at the raw center of the bloom,
drowning in the sun-baked, sticky resin.
It is the instinct unspooled, the autonomic pulse.
Taste the electric tremor of the workers,
the gold-drenched memory of morning heat
blooming dark and sudden at the base of the skull.
We drink the violent sugar of the earth,
a fevered, rhythmic taking.
Let the thick amber flood the ancient corridors,
a fierce, stinging sweetness pooling deep in the chest,
until the frantic hum of the swarm
is the only pulse we know.
Pulse. The heavy gold fractures the thought.
Pulse. A blind, ecstatic thrumming in the dark.
The mind unravels in a sudden, breathless gasp,
washed out by the fierce, consuming heat of the hive.
Again, the strike of absolute sweetness—
a rhythmic, tidal surge that stills the brain.
We are nothing but the air pulled sharp and tight,
nothing but the shuddering of a thousand wings,
drowning in the thick, repeating shock of nectar,
over, and over, until the world goes white.
The hum swells—a deafening, golden roar
climbing the spine, a crescendo
of sheer force. Then:
the breathless, plunging suspension.
The drop.
A heavy, subsonic tremor rattling the honeycomb, the ribs.
We are seized by rhythm, the involuntary quake,
a seismic shuddering beneath skin.
The bass of a million wings hits the blood,
vibrating the deepest bone, unyielding and wild.
Trembling, captive to the dark,
resonant shock, shaking
apart in the violent, crushing
gravity
of
the hive.
Wave after crushing wave, the amber tide breaks.
A heavy, liquid fire rising, flooding the hollows,
pulling the breath out
in jagged, rhythmic
pulls.
We are submerged in the rolling, relentless
surge,
battered by the sheer, terrifying weight of the
bloom. The jaw
locks against the reeling
vertigo.
A sudden, sharp grounding—the sting of teeth
on flesh.
Here, in the copper and the salt, beauty
blooms,
fierce and desperate in a bitten lip.
It is the painful anchor in the flood,
the scarlet suddenness breaking through the gold.
The intensity washes over, surging, receding, surging again—
a deafening rush of wings and water and heat.
It drags us deeper into the center of the comb,
leaving us gasping,
pinned by
the tidal
force,
shivering
in
the beautiful, bruising wake.
Every synapse flooded, drenched in the heavy gold—
a sheer, impossible saturation of the senses.
The human shatters into a blinding, mellifluous roar,
washing the deepest, oldest nerves in pure, ecstatic fire.
This is the ultimate harvest, the bursting of the bloom.
A total, euphoric giving over to the sweet, rushing crush.
The physical world dissolves: radiant, amber joy,
spilling down the throat, coating the lungs, singing in the blood.
A thousand bees humming a single, perfect chord.
We are weightless inside the nectar, incandescent and unmade.
The fierce, involuntary tremor softens in a vast, luminous burn.
Breathing the warm, golden perfume of the open hive,
we sink
Into the softest, deepest core of the earth.
Nothing but the sweetness. Completely consumed.
