In the kitchen-
Fingertips trace ashes splattered over counters;
Eyes see crumbled-filled drawers with a past
when dishes were cookies in the oven
and cakes were carved
with the shape of our hearts:
Heavy rocks that smelt like vanilla
with sprinkles of cinnamon, and
half-beaten egg yolks
that made the inedible
a recipe of love.
In the Hallway-
Feet tramp over wet floors,
Lungs inhale a moist and smoky aroma of disbelief
like the times fajitas were overcooked - almost burnt,
due to eyes gazing onto one another with lust.
So the deck was moped with tears of joy
for having put dinner on the kitchen table
that made the inedible
a recipe of love.
In the Bedroom-
Legs clatter upon fragments of what used to be a door,
The passage where passion blanketed cold skins
till watching Television became a cheap dessert,
not the main dish:
The usual dish where romantic hands tendered flesh
from neck to toes
until the flame of fervor cooked bodies
into a dish of love.
In the Bathroom-
Pale face reflects in mirror,
hands hold an extinguished, almost charcoal like candle
closed to chest
as if it was a picture frame of a wedding day
where infidelity became a fierce fire
blazing heavy hearts
into a dish of love...
