One egg dredged into the pan,
A drip of you, olive and oil,
Singed into my skin.
I could let this unborn child Fry into a dusted disappointment
But I won’t. I know you like it.
Scuff a little off the bottom,
Careful not to break the yolk
and bleed it burning yellow.
It would be an omelette. A failed attempt at letting you
Love me after I’ve drunk you.
Not today. We don’t break. We don’t bleed or say anything.
We only bake, sunglazed,
Your buns ‘cross my muffin tops,
Your kisses like syrup spun, Silking down my neck as I egg you on