I sit on hard splintered wood
Even in winter
Cup of coffee in my hands
Steam rising up my nose
With each sip
Liquid usually too hot to drink
In a gulp
So I linger over it
the way I ache
to do with love,
Feeling always like
Goldie Locks
With love either
Too hot or too cold
With me waiting
On the bears to complain
About me being in
Their kitchen.
I can’t get Indian food
Right either,
Asking for mild
Only to get slammed
With spiced that tears
My insides out,
Some meals
You’re only supposed
To dabble in
Not plunge in,
But I always
Jump in head first
Always hoping for that
Perfect cup of coffee
Or a dish spiced
Just right,
And despite
The steam up my nose
Or the fire in my belly
I’ll always ache
For perfect love
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