The spanish word of the day is "salsa."

How strange to have a best friend again.
And how strange to think of what we did with our lives only a few short weeks ago.
A life devoid of eggs.
Perhaps it could be said that I was consumed by fear,
a physical rejection of that warm gooey rawness
before it even met my lips,
stopped at my nostrils
by that immensely pleasurable yet simultaneously repulsive
smell.

And now I am itching for something to write about,
and find myself plagued with a new fear,
that I may have to learn a new style;
a new waltz with syllables around an awkward tongue and shiny gums;
and my fingers will have to learn how to drive standard;
because old default phrases of madness and jealousy and tortured unrequited love
don't wrap well around sticky tonsils or chewed off fingernails,
not like they used to.

But what if maaaaaayyyyybbeee
I'm only good at singing the blues?

What if it? I suppose that

maybe I will stop writing
and in turn stop existing,
and become the runny eggs that honor the gods
in my back yard.