I remember when I first saw you, plump and pink, fetchingly mottled with fat and gristle. The moment I first touched you without a plastic barrier a shiver of delight ran up my spine. I remember how you couldn't help but curl - but just a bit, you were strong! - when you hit the boiling beer, and how your scent mingled with the onion and malt. I ached for you then, but made myself turn down the heat and continue my careful preparations.
I meditated upon your juices, your subtle spice, as I prepared the coals. Smoke stung my eyes, and excused my tears of anticipatory joy.
When I laid you upon the grill, how you bubbled and squealed! What color infused your flanks as I seared you, swallowing my pity, reveling in my mastery. And yet you tantalized, dripping your succulent essence onto the fire, dampening its power even as you intensified its impartation of smoky tang. And how you writhed.
Now the consummation was near. I laid you upon your Wondrous™ cushion, and reverently adorned you to accentuate your round, glistening form. The onion relish, sauerkraut, and mustard, beige and banal, framed your browned, taut skin.
Then I had you. I can scarcely contain the memory of my ecstasy, as I in turn was seared, but by pleasure, and writhed, but in carnivorous transcendence.
As I drifted from euphoricurean enlightenment back toward the mundane, I felt a pinprick of sadness. As the endorphins wore away, that pinprick enflamed into an abscess of despair. You were gone. In my monomaniacal determination to possess and consume you, I lost you forever. And I remain without you.
They say there are others, that I will move on. Kind fools. I know that my heart is forever entwined. However other brats attempt to entice, they seem but greasy and misshapen, pathetic and cheap.
I have wept myself dry, but still I lie awake, remembering the cruel ecstasy that redefined me, and robbed me forever of contentment. Regret? No, I cannot regret that which made me. But I grieve. Always I grieve.
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