In the hush of morning, soft as flour dust,
She stirs the batter — slow, deliberate, just
like the way her fingers traced my spine,
one tender line at a time.
We rise like dough in warmth,
proofed in glances, quiet sighs —
love left under linen cloth,
expanding sweet, and never lost.
She tastes like cinnamon, sharp and sweet,
with sugar-laced words and tangled feet.
I melt like butter in her hand,
softened by a kitchen's quiet command.
We fold our pasts like egg whites in,
careful not to break the spin —
two stories whipped into one frame,
not identical, but just the same.
Flour on our cheeks, a kiss mid-whisk,
the joy of risk and messy bliss.
No need for icing, gloss, or glaze —
we are the flavor, bold, unfazed.
So let the world write recipes
in straighter lines and centuries —
we bake in curves and secret notes,
a love that simmers, swells, and floats.
This is no half-measured affair:
we are a full cup — bold, prepared —
love like layers in a pie,
deep and golden, you and I.