baking

my head was all cinnamon and apple pie the night you asked me to fuck you on the kitchen floor.

the timer ringing clocked us back into reality and my flight, scheduled in a couple hours.

when the plane left the runway my knees and palms were still constellated with the crumbs and dust of us.

i can’t walk past the baking aisle without getting a toothache in the incisor you left in my shoulder.

one of many cavities that you will never fill again