Making and Having

I wonder if it would make you blush

To hear that when I make brownies

I think of making love

To you.

Melting the butter to golden brown,

I listen for the crackles and pops to cease—

Like hearing the change in the way that you breathe;

The warm, nutty scent of it

Like breathing in the oils that rise

To the surface of your skin.

Chopping the chocolate finely as it melts,

Languid beneath my finger tips—

Like you?

Like me.

Like pieces of myself deliciously surrendered beyond my control.

Surreptitious tastes of batter

Are salty;

Not too much, but just enough,

Dropping from the spoon

Like the kisses I spill with abandon

Across your neck, chest, arms, hips.

Spreading gently but firmly into the pan,

Lower, higher, just there, oh, just right;

Careful that every last inch wanting more

Is satisfied.

The rise as it finds its place in the oven is subtle, but captivating;

Tantalizingly tumescent,

So close, but wait,

Wait…

When at last it’s finished,

Still quivering at the center,

Tender as your enfolding forearms,

I know that the pleasure of making

Is only a taste of the pleasure of having

What I have

With you.