“What does it taste like?” you asked.
It’s as if whipped cream got better. Thicker and smoother, denser but somehow just as light. As if it became both custard and pudding.
It’s almost the exact, most balanced opposite to chocolate mousse. It’s Springy, dressed in a nearly-sheer layer of raspberry sauce that seems far too thin to transform what should be a blankness of taste, and yet is not, into a burst of curiosity and delight.
It’s all the women who called for the cows up in their mountain pastures where they spent the summer. It’s all the lovers they took after their work was done, the women with the milking and the butter churning and the cheese making, the men with the ploughing and sowing and harvesting. It’s the feeling of bare skin against moss. The smell of sweat and salt and sun from a day outside. The cool of the forest in the shade. The quiet chatter of the animals as the sun falls lower and lower, as lovers sink into each other.
And it’s the bright, clear taste of stars at night. Of waking at a time that is so liminal it is neither early nor late but a whole other reality all together. And it is, I answer you now, the feeling of reaching across the space between and taking a hand in mine, then sleeping, with a smile, until morning.