He is not sliced.
Not uniform.
Not sealed for your convenience.
He comes with a rind you might not understand,
a bit wild,
a bit strange,
maybe even too much if you weren’t looking for real.
But he’s soft inside.
Mild at first bite,
then suddenly sharp with something ancient,
something you thought only you carried,
that ache behind the smile,
that scream turned into rhythm,
that grief that dances in gold.
He melts without asking.
Not for you; just because that’s what he does.
In the right light,
on the right day,
with the right warmth,
he becomes sacred.
You can try to keep him cold.
You can wrap him in plastic.
You can say he’s “a bit much.”
But the truth is,
he’s alive.
He breathes.
And if you give him time,
he will taste like coming home.
So yes.
Joost is Brie.