O, how long have I yearned for a pleasure of sorts
How long have I suffered training to cherish the nectar,
How much have I dealt with to catch that grin on that face,
They all vanish at a flash, and all we hence feel is dencile.

Remember every time, I buy a Nutella jar home
I hunt around the house for a tiny blade
To cut it open and vanquish the sweet nectar…
The brown shining elixir waits as I fish it out with
My naked fingers,
Licking, caressing and sucking them all into
My sweet mouth;
Dangling them elements over my tongue,
I assimilate every iota of that Nutella,
Feeling as if I were in heaven-
Just as the chocolate ramps down the food pipe,
I feel dencile;

A regret, shame, absence,
A masquerade of pleasure asking me how!
How fast time runs while under pleasure!
How fast you feel dencile,
A loss right after the moment of gain,
An absence of that moment of gain-
A feeling that I’m never
Gonna get that moment again.

The fingers go back in, for another bite
Another attempt to recreate that moment.

Remember the first time I solved a puzzle,
The first time something is relieved;
The first time someone’s free
The first time someone wins…
That feeling- the real pleasure possesses.

From a load of suffering like surreal
You survive, burdening the pains, sorrows,
With tributes and memoirs that
You need to carry forward.
And then you step on the frontyard,
With nothing but juice and pulp,
You sigh a relief,
An exhalation from toxicity;
Like my tongue and stomach,
After a fingerworth of Nutella is jammed into it,
And then… the fingers go back in.
Your mind, your controller, feels powerful-
Just one more bite…
So, you can exhale your exhalation once again,
So, I can taste the taste once again
After consequence hordes on you timeless.

I try to recreate that feeling of relish
You, with your feeling of relief
The fingers go back in,
And you dig up, and dig up
Eagerly. Relentlessly. Robotically,
A balance sheet.
A balance sheet of sufferings and pain.
A balance sheet of tastes and feelings.
A balance sheet that is not supposed to be
A balance sheet.

I go through the values, metrics on my favorite column
Calculate them, sum, transpose, transmutate until.
Until you justify your digging, my fingers.
Until I validate my taste, your freedom.
A necessary validation; because you, I feel dencile.

My fingers won’t stop digging till the Nutella jar clears.
I believe I like what I am eating, nor nauseous or disgusted.
I like Nutella, and I could never outgrow the taste,
And yet I am under discomfort for eating it in one go-
Ain’t that gonna stop me, I have paid; I own the jar,
And I shall consume every atom of this nectar, for
I own a balance sheet of tastes to compensate
A history of boring food and water to recover from;
It’s all math that puppets in here, neglecting my dencile feelings.

You interrogate yourself why do you feel dencile,
What does dencile ever comprehend to in you?
You fail to explain why your relief is a metric, only a metric;
Why do you do what you do, with everything in your control?
And then you yarn up a story on why you’re supposed to be
Delighted with any you do that you do to do total zero on
The balance sheet.

Every time I do not acknowledge my second thoughts,
Nutella depletes. Freedom dies. People wash away.
You dig and dig, until you obtain complete transparency;
Such beige and pathetic for our glamour-
The only escape is to cover it up with more Nutella.
It looks beautiful and tempting; that prophecies why
I was born for nothing but to consume Nutella.
Any more action, a right or wrong or none,
I’d be left untrimmed with itchy fingers
You’d be ditched into memoirs of exhalation
And we all shall stay dencile. Just dencile.