Big Sandwich Bites.

You’re trying to pile it in, get at every bit. You open wide. Wider. Like you’re eating a monster truck. I get a glimpse of your tongue and tonsils. Your esophagus waves hello.

I have to put my own sandwich down because a lump has formed in my throat, preventing me from swallowing. It is possible to split the gigantic sandwich up, ya know? Separate it into manageable mouthfuls. But instead you stretch and expand your face to its maximum capacity, like you’re a character from Beetlejuice. Like your life depends on this chomp. Like you’re just so desperate for the perfect bite.

And I crumble. I am a morsel of lastima mixed among your bread crumbs. Because I want everything to fit for you, too. I want you to savor every taste you crave. The whole world can spill into your mouth: the sky and the stars and the moon. Tumbling right in with the avocado and the tomato and the pickle. That’s how crazy-big you’ve unhinged your jaw. That’s how much I want you gratified and satisfied. That’s how much I want you to have it all.

p.s. Vegan sandwich. I’m just saying…