We used to laugh as we stood against the kitchen top

Chocolate covered spoon, touching button noses

As heady scents of richest bakes began to drift

Through the air that hung like blankets overhead.

But soon the smell began to turn

To something tart and difficult to love.

I cut through satin sheets of sweet

To find that you were never really there.

It hurt at first, like I had burned myself

On glowing metal straight from oven’s jaws.

The burn was ugly and a blemish there for life,

I hated looking at the postule pock marked skin,

Knowing it could never fade into my pale and freckled arm.

It hurt for years; four to be precise.

And then one day the cook book caught my eye

And soon I found the cookies being baked.

I wasn’t in that deepest love

But I had healed, forgiven in the ginger haze

The kitchen once again the place

I wished to spend my lonely days.