warm from the hive’s own breath

With bare hands, you coax the comb free, its texture yielding and sticky, warm from the hive’s own breath. The honey runs slow, decadent, across your skin. You taste it—complex, smoky, sweet—like the memory of a lover whose name still lingers on the tongue. It stains your mouth, your fingers, your morning, until you too feel part of this dark ritual.

The wind carries the low hum of bees and the distant echo of river-song. Everything is alive. Everything is tasting, touching, trembling.

Harvesting Black Honey in the Mountains of Yunnan with Pu Family