I first read this word once at some vague indiscernible point in the past and have since not forgotten it. I have held it to my chest in the hope that it would pass into me, not unlike osmosis; into a place where there was considerably less of it. No other word has woken me up as gently, made me dewy-eyed and aspiring. No other word warms me from the inside out, forces me to transcribe it into sound each time I see it on a page – ‘honeyed’, this ‘honeyed’ lens. On occasion I see the world through it, sweet and glossy, smooth and light. And I am reminded that I must work, so someday this lens may no longer be needed. And that someday I will breath a long and satisfying sigh.

Until then I will linger over it. Hold it closer to me so that I may drip, rich and syrupy with it, sweet and glazed, honed but not hardened by it. To be honeyed. What other simple peace is there to long for than for the world to be honeyed?


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