You sting my tongue,
steam rising fresh from your bed
heavy in all the right ways.
You're not that hard to make,
yet I am too tired to cook.

You sit in my belly,
the way you taste still swirling around my mouth.
No matter how much you satisfy,
there is always room for you.
Your eyes, red and spicy,
the slow burn of how you spread
through my body.

Yet, I'm still too tired to cook.
I don’t want to over-season you,
the reality of part of you
becoming burnt edges on a ***.
I don’t want to waste a single inch of you,
nor the space that you fill.

I want all of you inside of me,
even if part of you is burnt