as she
let me
into her kitchen
and ask about her butternut squash,
we both felt the need
to force the fall of autumn,
her shirt-dress from the Gap
fit perfectly into the conversation
as well as on her.
beautiful,
goddamn beautiful
and blonde,
just the opposite of my type,
she insulted me first,
and then gave me cinnamon,
and turned up the radio
without knowing.
the song
was a good one,
one we both sang,
one that I won't name here,
because it will only belong to us,
as some things are better left
to cutlery and cunning,
of which she had me
in her pan,
heart baked by a recipe of
casual conversation, chemistry,
eyes, wrists, laters and nows.
we spun around story exchanges,
immediate honestly, complaints, and everything,
never before,
because I paint by passion
and she works with measurements
and photographs;
she took mine;
I will write about her more and more,
you'll see.