Pasta , I cook you. I season you. Yet , you leave me quickly. In 10 minutes , you dissapear.
Pasta, you are the gate-keeper of my adulthood . The first dish , I cooked on my own .
In you, I learned patience . For I know, I have burned you. For I know, I have oiled you. For I know, I have rendered you soggy.
Yet, I always ate you.
I ate you, when I did not eat much at all. I ate you , even when food was the enemy .
Your carb-infested insides are "unsafe". Yet, you are the only food I ate.
I manipulated you , I made you safe. I shrunk you to the size of a tea-cup . I lathered you in emptiness, once a day.
Now , I mix you . My once scrawny arms mix you, with your other friends: meat, chicken , bacon, and cheese.
Do you miss me ? For, sometimes I miss you .
You call my name softly hissing, as I try on clothes. As I cook. As I drive . As I tan . As I shower. And mostly before I eat.
Pasta, you are my enemy, savior, and diary wrapped in a see-through package.
Pasta, you are my kryptonite. Monogamy is not as easy as it seems.