My Ode to Mango and Sticky Rice

Like an egg, mango and sticky rice gave birth to my imagination.
I would ravage each dish like a pubescent boy and then let the sweet milk linger on the corner of my mouth; It becoming a sculpture, and then lick it off just before my next encounter.

My Chang Mai mistress, the city was our bedroom as we romped through the streets, the restaurants, the bedrooms, the hole-in-the-wall cafes, and in private kitchens.
Neither of us cared if others stared at our affection.

Oh, my love: like the scent of crackling creme bulee; When we had to part, I would see you everywhere. I would see you on the halo of Jesus, the reflection of the sun in a muddy pond, the smile of a child, and each petal dancing in the breeze.

I remember, as my spoon hovered over you, how I wished I could keep the image of you whole, while indulging in the flavor at the same time. And when I could, since the spoon is such an inadequate carrier for flavor, I would use my hands to reach into you and let you kiss my lips. How I relished holding each grain of rice, each grain of rice, each grain of rice between my fingers: the coconut scent with a hint of salt would whaff into my hypothalamus.

And the mango: the supple flesh would caress my tongue and I would, with great apprehension, pulp it between my teeth. Then, in unison, I would swallow each al dente grain with silky flesh bit by bit by bit.

You are in Thailand now and I am days away, how I wish I appreciated you more.

My great love, my Chang Mai mistress, as soon as I am able, I will return.

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