Between flaky layers, bittersweet memories envelop my tongue.
The buttery pastry comforts me, like you do; your presence a blanket of calm to temper that of me which is sometimes overwhelming.
Is there any pairing more perfect?
I hope there must be, if I must give this up.
If I must shake off the warmth and layers of your embrace and face the world in my nakedness.
What am I without you?
.
What are you, free of me?
I wonder if I might see you someday, laced with sweet and delicate almond, enjoying the lightness and warmth of another flavor.
Maybe pistachio? Something spunky and unique, to match your stable and true.
Such thoughts are torturous and useless, to be sure.
But I am in mourning. The substance of my being is dressed in funeral-black; a higher concentration of cocoa? A little less sugar to cut the edge.
Will I be able to extricate myself from this life, which I feel so certain is someone else’s bliss?
.
The smell of butter is intoxicating. It is so luxurious, so addictive; the oils coating every last inch of me until I cannot breathe.
I am so perfectly embraced by your layers, so fully encapsulated, so firmly embedded and safe from the world.
But am I safe from you? (Or me? Even more so, are you safe from me?)
.
Again and again, I see the beauty as I move to walk away.
Lot’s wife could not stop herself from looking back at the city of corruption.
Maybe this is just the nature of goodbyes?
To wistfully pine away for the pastry when all that’s left are crumbs.
.
Extraordinarily Ordinary 