Crème Brulée into the Night

A random poem of hesitance, romance, and dinner-dating.

When we met for lunch –

Though the clock over the quad is too fast

For your tongue –

I'd forgotten my LBD,

Do you remember? You were missing

A cufflink and I laughed.

I joked that it had fallen

Into our dessert

That we never shared:

Crème brulée. Overcooked.

Dry as the ground beneath my hands –

And one gave me support;

The other caught us both off guard.

That starlight in a warm cover;

I swear your eyes had never

Been so full of light.

You called it hope, unconvinced,

I lied. I said the wine made you glint, wink, dive.

Inside, I was as a naked as the

Cool moon, the cool underneath of my crème brulée.

You didn't tell me you loved me

For another four months –

Like the inside of a dessert,

We were slow to reveal.

I understand.

Desserts are only tempting after sensory trials.

I understand.

The End

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