She is not just pizza, she is Persephone on dough, fig-dark sweetness pressed from autumn’s womb, spread across the earth like a secret hymn.

Her shallots burn like dusk in the underworld, their caramel fire licking at the edges, a hunger that stings as it seduces.

Mozzarella  
the pale moons of her *******  soft, molten, surrendering under heat.
Fontina, the molten gold of her laughter, binding every element into delirium.

Out of the oven she rises, clothed only in veils of prosciutto thin silk of salt and surrender. Then arugula rains down, green fire, wild meadow,
a crown of pepper on her head.

She is feast, she is goddess,
she is the altar and the appetite,
the sweetness of figs,
the bite of arugula,
the yielding heat of molten flesh.

That is how you like your woman:
a sacred hunger,
a myth you devour,
a body both temple and banquet.