hot plate of poetry

hot plate of poetry, served on a table for three. mix a little spice in. 

one and two, two poets with a gift. one for making pastries, the other for chopping onions. the onion dashes into my eye, but (some)one cries instead of me. my dearest friend three laughs at all of this. 

hot plate of spicy poetry, I break one(‘s) plate and my friend consoles me. “so what if plates are broken? plates are meant to be broken. every plate is born knowing that it will break.” And love is born out of the desire to taste. New beginnings, who knew? I was bored of one, pastries. I don’t have a sweet tooth, I like the sea salt on my tongue and three(‘s) kisses on my cheek. My dearest friend and I make loaves of bread together. Add cinnamon and clove and all the flavours. There’s a hot plate of poetry for three at the table. But when it cools down there’s only two left. Process of elimination, I broke his plate, he ran away. Process of elimination, I could never look him again in the eye. Process of elimination, you stand by my side, making bread and laughter and love. Hot plate of poetry for three makes for a funny story on the table.