Flour on the Kitchen Counter

I dip my finger, put the sugar to my lips, and I taste you.

Freckles dust your cheeks like flour on the kitchen counter.

Heat from the oven holds me, sways me,

A soft dance with you.

—

The smell of freshly baked cookies wafts from the kitchen,

But the scent of you lingers on my pillow.

Warm as vanilla and memory, sweet on the tongue,

We savour the moments.

—

And even though we have made a mess of ourselves and the counters,

We wipe down the tops and wash chocolate-coated hands.

Clean.

Until we happily make our mess again.