oneperfectplum:

 

Scraping the burned bits off toast, 

and I thought of you, my darling,

my love.

Remember burning things all winter

and there was you,

fanning smoke, smiling.

One time I made pasta for you, honey,

Undercooked, you said.

And I was in our bedroom all night

sulking, pouting.

Riding down dark streets at night,

through blue shadows to you, my sweetheart,

my dear.

And I thought of you last night, baby,

slurping up noodles,

blowing out the light.