The Crunch

Sometimes, often,

I read words and can only liken my desire, my need, to absorb them into my being

As the need to drag freshly baked bread across a plate thickly lined with olive oil,

Preferably in the afternoon sun.

The sound of the crust,

Cracking against the tension,

Mimicking each syllable.

A series of decisions, made whole in their cadence.

The meaning almost too much,

The savoring of the sensation,

 Oil dripping down my throat into my soul,

Slowly,

Soaking my flesh and mind alike.

Oh, how I crave to be a writer. 

How magical to understand,

To have my thoughts so perfectly captured in someone else’s expression.