You made that meal for me.
So much so that I don't even remember what it was.
A pasta drenched in a tire company's stars—nevermind.
Comparisons melt before you.
Me too.
Like the cheese on a burger or ice cream all—we had that, didn't we?
Ice cream.
I remember the awkward pause after, realizing we couldn't eat dinner together forever.
We had to go earn things that—but by then I had melted.
A meal of me. Yours.
YOU ARE READING
A Baby Poet's Purée
PoetryA new poem about life, food, and/or love every weekday by a poet just starting to crawl. Mostly haiku right now! Thank you for reading!!
