Reckless offering

Imagining you today,
I rise above my dilemmas for a while—
reckless, tearing words from my body
to lay them at your feet
before they clog my heart’s dark exhaust
and muffle the engine you helped revive.

Like a ravenous animal I gorge,
trying to digest this sharp, putrid world—
to turn its sourness into honeyed morsels
I might feed you when you’re hungry.

But bitterness collects.
Dregs settle in the kidneys, scar the liver,
thicken the pathways of the heart.
I wonder if I’ll live long enough
to deliver these offerings.

What if instead we schemed and stirred together
in the same warm cookery?

What if nourishment came not from parcels
wrapped carefully between us,
but from raw, spontaneous spoonfuls—
from charred mistakes
born of distraction in your kiss,
and the rare perfect sponge
that surprises even a messy baker?

What if we devoured that sweet, imperfect cake—
licking fingers, laughing—
then looked up to find ourselves
bound by something quietly sprouting?

Strong hands, shoulder, side,
the small of your back yielding
as we careen into an embrace
you trust without waiting for proof.
Insecurity spills into tears
that stain your dress
even as we keep dancing—
smiling, free,
sowing seeds of delicious wonder.