The Slow Pull

That jar, from the back of the cupboard, heavy.

Trying to coax it out, a teaspoon for the recipe.

It wasn't a pour, not really. More a reluctant

stretch, a dark, viscous pull.

It clung to the glass, thick as regret,

made a long, shimmering thread

between the spoon and the jar's lip.

Sweet, yes, but impossibly slow.

Like a promise you made, ages ago,

still trying to break free, still sticking.

It won't let go clean. It insists on dragging

a little bit of itself, forever,

belonging to everything it touches.