spoonful

THE WANT you get for someone, the recurring want, like a warm and fragrant spring, that primitive and delicious want, and ever more want (and ever wanting more want), the want that sweeps and lingers in the flesh, overwhelms senses, and in a blink fades like the aftertaste of something sweet, a spoonful of honey, a face full of honeysuckle. That’s the kind of want I have.