She reads about the history of butter,
or maybe the chemistry?
If her eyes lift up into mine,
Will the happy accident,
Accidentally inspire smoothness?
I retreat inside the coffee mug,
Hidden behind ear buds
Buried in my own Kundera.
How can I become so light in being
When this moment feels so heavy?
I want that butterfly to fly into my heart
From the pit where it mines dark coals
To warm the night with pitiable cries
I would flit and float to the flower
Sitting like an invitation by her ear.
Instead, two sticks and a cup of sugar
Brown and white, each. Stir the lumps out.
Flour and vanilla, soda and salt. Egg.
Cracked like me, my yoke in the bowl.
Add chips, I am nuts. Bake me, until sweet.
Written at the Go Dog Go Treetop Cafe with PoetGirlEm