Piloncillo

I roll around syllables on my tongue

I've held the ashes of the world in my lungs

I see it as a beacon in the purest form.

Sugary, sweet, incomplete, and away from the norm.

It goes back to the question of what I am.

He has held sorrow I don't fully understand.

I see me nothing but spotted flour.

Flammable, tense, and flavorless.

His warm touch makes me even out.

I become unburdened, no longer with doubt.

Melting over a chalky white mountain, I can feel my heart resume.

Within the oven, I feel the fruits of our labor bloom. 

It feels like such a perfect combination. 

A soul without hate, going under purgation

Dough topped with something sugary sweet.

Only now do I feel complete.

My beloved Piloncillo,

Sticking against my flour,

I can only see a future when it's ours.