#comfortfood
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
Jan 4, 2025
Jan 4, 2025 at 1:03 AM UTC
You stirred the ***
Taking parts of you.
Parts of me.
The good, the bad.
Even the things that aren’t
So pretty to look at.
And poured them into
The pan.
It’s easy to forget about
The hurt until you come
Face to face with it.
Sour peaches aren’t the end
Of the world.
No matter how we layer it.
These are the things we’ve
Come to love about each other.
Even the hurt becomes mixed
In a sugar glaze with enough time.
No matter how bitter.
The brown of my skin
Mixed with yours.
A recipe that’s been done
And passed down before our time.
No matter how much of a mess
We think that things are,
No matter how bruised a peach
We accidentally pick up.
Nothing can replace the warmth
Of a cobbler.
Straight from the oven.
Soon we’ll both be fast asleep.
Your head rising and falling on my chest
With each breath I take.
Jul 30, 2024
Jul 30, 2024 at 12:48 PM UTC
I just ate
The last
Of the
Rocky Road
Out of the carton
Eating
My feelings away...
There wasn't much left
For me
Jun 21, 2023
Jun 21, 2023 at 12:05 PM UTC
Remember the roast potato days,
try to feel them when they arrive
in a kind of “What is this life…” way
The days when a surfeit of crisp-crunch
surrounds a fluffy middle, robed in a gravy of any persuasion
placating even the glummest sentiments
When rains are driven off
by silken rice pudding
spiked with a sweet acid dollop of jam of any fruit
Recall the carbohydrate wealth
when the poor days come
and your heart-stomach rumbles
Butter fat richness will return
and learning to trust this
is an adult meal indeed
Oct 4, 2020
Oct 4, 2020 at 9:02 AM UTC
When I'm feeling sad
I don't tell you.
You notice anyway that I'm not being myself.
You don't push me to say what's bothering me or where
my head is lately.
Instead, you wait patiently for me to be ready.
And in the meantime,
you bake me cookies.
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 9:15 PM UTC