Like butter hitting the
hot surface of the breakfast frying pan, my heart feels the warmth and hears
all too well that sizzle of a changing temperature, and I know, that unlike
this box of `expired Bisquick my lumps and age could still offer value to
someone hungry for a meal of commitment. Larger portions now fill that imaginary
plate, the offerings still richly seasoned with wisdom from the overcooked relationships
of that now spoiled past. My mind drifts again and I slip back in time to when
I was her main course.
I once adored her
structured randomness and the situations we’d find ourselves in. Stary eyed, each
promising this was forever. Laughing at time, at convention and at the obvious
lack of a plan that would one day, end this beautiful banquet. Her words had always implied
perfection, painting a picture long held dear to my mind and heart. They fed
me, though never enough for the malnutrition that raged inside and her abuse
grew rapidly. When I finally left, the note I left simply said “It was forever
baby, until it wasn’t”.
2 comments:
Love is a banquet that we never grow too full to have my friend! I love your use of love and want with the warmth of the melting butter, the bisquick, and the banquet. You have described what so many have experienced in one way or another. This is truly beautiful and a reflection of the amazing writer and poet you are Scott. Never stop writing and never give up hope on another beautiful banquet. You deserve that!
You never fail to uplift us all Carrie, you are an amazing person and someone I am proud to call my true friend. Thank you for unblocking the pile of words inside me, and allowing them to flow again 💕
Post a Comment