Written by Taylor Calonzo
Edited by Cato
As you stood before the stove
that summer evening in June,
a wooden spoon in your right hand
and a cup of jasmine tea in your left,
incessantly stirring a pot of aromatic stew,
I fell in love.
At once, a deluge of warmth and bliss overcame me,
inundating the hollow vacancy of my ribcage and
washing away the sorrow that had once dwelled.
The delightful scent of rosemary and thyme was enough
to make me forget the carnage just outside the window.
Gone were the dreadful what if’s
that had plagued the tip of my tongue for so long,
replaced instead with the all-encompassing ecstasy of the moment.
Suddenly the world was in blazing color.
The striking violet and orange hues of the sky were nothing
compared to the welcoming brown of your irises.
I’d once imagined love tasted like chocolate-covered strawberries:
tart and cloying, bordering on sickening,
an assault of the senses.
You couldn’t eat more than two without
feeling heavy as a barrel of sugar.
Now I know it tastes like a bowl of steaming soup,
a freshly baked loaf of bread, like warmth, comfort—
utterly delicious.
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Asians in the Arts 