I am making you toast.
White bread, thick and moist, crisps and darkens,
A smell of crumbs and comfort
wafts around the room.
The butter curls about the knife
Soft and oily, there is some on my finger
And I lick it off.
The toast is ready, it jumps from the toaster,
And I start to spread, butter sinking in with a satisfied sigh.
And here you are, with your arms around my waist,
Your warm breath in my ear, trying to steal a piece too early.
I catch your fingers in my oily own
And you put them to your mouth.
What do you want, hungry mister?
Me or the toast?