Photo by Raymond Petrik on Unsplash
But this love,
it isn’t the sharpest knife
like the ones before
that carved out a pound of flesh
of whichever part of me
most pleased them.
This love is a silver-plated butter knife,
pearl handles in your gentle hands
spreading luscious crème de Pistache
across my war-torn
croissant shapes.
Thank you for my muse for blessing me with an abundance of inspiration, especially when it comes to cheesy love poems. (This one was not so cheesy though.)
I love crème de Pistache, but I never had a real French croissant in my life.
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