The first time you made me cocoa you had those tiny marshmallows. The little white parcels of sweetness which melt swiftly into layers of warm comfort, as I do when I hold you.
Sweetness is a stolen kiss still sugared with the taste of a cake I made for you. Sweetness is a morning where the pain of sleep cut short is soothed by waking side by side.
I thought at first you were calling me by a term of endearment which you learned from your pen-friend in Germany; a word you had gracefully deciphered from her slanted, dotted hand.
Just as icing and decoration makes the greatest cake the smallest things make you. The most insignificantly significant make you who you are and make me who I am, smiling.