Your every memory sequestered
into perfect hexagons of wax,
each experience divided
equally within the least perimeter,
partitioned and carefully stashed for later.
There is no deviation in your structuring,
every cell precisely angled to prevent a leak;
you are the union of these flawless bounded spaces.
Where do you go—When that wax cracks and the honey
so carefully contained now oozes
raw and sugary-thick against your fingertips?
Where do you go—when you cannot forget that taste,
pure and unrefined, sweet vanilla and musk,
and try as you might, you can never return
that image to your concocted comb?