i never told him now i felt
not once had the intention of doing so
because a part of me believed
that unrequited love is much sweeter
than the sour taste of once aquatinted love
and not longer acquainted love;
never as bitter as the love from a confession
cut off at the stem and uprooted from the earth.
perhaps it was my fear of my heart being laid out bare-
torn apart and sliced to shreds
only to fall short of the pan
and into the trash instead.
that last drop in the bottle no one bothers to get
i was never one for cooking
but i can't seem to find step one
and i don't think i have all the ingredients
for this thing they call love.
how long should i let it bake
and how do i know when its ready to share?
