She always gave him baked goods,
It’s as if he swallowed the poem she tried to tell
But never had the courage to do so.
Afraid that it’s too dark, too sweet
Eventually, too stale to be eaten.

So at dawn, her kitchen was the kingdom she woke up to,
The oven shone before the sun,
She was embraced by the lingering dusts of flour in the air that dance
Like cupids celebrating love,
The sound of her utensils was the applause of the crowd that resonated to her soul.
The smile she received was like being showered by the bravos of roses.

This was her sanctuary.

And so it become her routine.