Speak to me in darkness
when the sun is tucked behind trees
and stars welcome insomniacs to play.
Whisper to me through silence--
our secret strawberry pancake recipe.

"Eggs, flour, milk, sugar--" you list.
"Shhhh."
Parents are dreaming, not suspecting
two young lover frolicking their kitchen,
breathing their souls across a steaming skillet.
"Don't forget the strawberries," you say.
"Yeah, I know."

Thoughts swirl through my head
like steeping tea.
How cute you are while
you wait, licking batter
off calloused, worn hands.

To say that you are cute would be
to say these strawberries are sweet.
As sweet as a strawberry tastes
it has secret flavors, hidden--
sharp and ****,
red and deep.

I would love to find you growing wild
out by the woods.  I'd make
a basket with the looseness of my shirt
to carry home as many of you back to my kitchen
as I could possibly hold.

Lips pressed to my neck pull
my attention back from the brambles.