The Chef

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Love relaxes in a kitchen
cinnamon and sugar toppling over
from beneath the battery surface

It looks deeply
Through the lens of the glass table
Wishing I could stretch across it
To hold its hand
One last time

The caressing scent-
Like banana pancakes on a Sunday morning-
Trickles through my body.
My toes curl; shivers grasp me.

It pops
like microwavable popcorn
in an enlarged bag
When we’re trapped inside the house
On a rainy day

For a split second of pleasure
It pulls me in.
“Trust me.”

When our lips finally touch
I’m submerged
Beneath crumbling raisins and oats
revealing
a chewy center

The pounding grows louder
Until it bursts from beneath.
The fingerprints dig
Through the highest layer of skin.

An inhalation of breath,
Lungs packed to full capacity.
A breath that’s no longer mine-
But its.





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