Ispahan.

Perfect circles of
infinite air;
meringue.

Raspberries, picked at dawn,
glistening with dew,
by the hand of a young
maiden, remembering her lover
in a far away land.

Cloud of fresh cream
hand-speckled with lychee
released heady and trembling
with delight from
spiky shells.

Tinted with rose
reminiscent of childhood perfumeries

Slowly it slipped
from the fork
and all the way down to my heart,
now crying
with the bliss.

Ispahan.

Note: Written on location in Paris at the Pierre Hermé boutique.