Not the gluttonous delight,
nor the pleasure of orgasm.
Not the way salt sticks to a hard-boiled egg,
nor the tornado,
but the one quick sunset thereafter,
the musky pink sky darkening
and now your hair tangled and dry like weeds.
The sadness of overhearing a song through thick walls,
and singing it achingly slow while the real words have passed,
a new song is on. You have an epiphany.
The ripple of water after turning off the stove,
and the miraculous inflation of your bellies,
breathing healthily now.
This day only happens once in your life,
or thrice,
or never.
.
.
