She was everything I kneaded. The way she was dusted with flour, light and soft to the touch. She rises to the occasion and reaches new heights; her only reservation is digital, with a 5:30 departure. Her citrus aroma reinforces the way she zests up another’s “normal life.” She is no ordinary broad; she stretches broad with her dough, emotions, and aspirations. I fear that while abroad, she’ll find herself broadening someone else’s palate. She has a flavor that drives even the most stringent dieter to indulge in excess. I cannot compare to other hungry hearts, but she refuses to accept that.
She was crafted with genuine concern and diligent hands that reach for famished fools, such as myself. She rolls with the pins when other consumers have flattened her. She doesn’t conceal the hurt from the others that never stayed long enough for the finished product. I sometimes allow that to affect my appetite. My words would never cast enjoyment of the fights we have… even though I crave them. There’s something about the way she looks in a frazzled mess, flour covering the kitchen, that keeps me close. But— abandonment satisfies more than carbs… at least that’s the case in my baked experience. Chains can’t stunt her growth because she is incapable of conforming. Her escape clause is written boldly in the recipe of her. She is painted with a smile and melted butter, a masterpiece but I’m no artist. She’s enough to make me melt but I refuse to portray such weakness. I have strength in goodbye and I never looked back… to her knowledge.
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AuthorChef Steph cooking up trouble. If she can't find anything real, she bakes real good sweets. Chocolate really may mend a broken heart... Archives
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