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.