My friends were right from day one:
I was a pot boiled over and my bubble-love
overflowed onto everyone and everything but you.
We were watched pots plenty of times;
mine olive oil, salt, and lemon;
yours, father’s pierogies.
I never did get to try them.
Burns on my tongue reminded me
of the last delicacy I tried to eat
without allowing time to cool.
I smothered my impulsiveness and temper,
tempered until smooth and golden brown;
until I could no longer taste
the umami of proactive love.
I turned the burner to high and walked away
and soon enough the love spilled over:
I fell for newfound freedom, the audacity of fate,
smoky summer mornings,
caramelizers with extra caramel,
fairground ferris wheels, new ears to listen,
and the straw wrapper I blew down
the front of your shirt.
They say you can’t see your reflection in boiling water.
Trust my friends to take me off the heat.
They were right from day one,
I loved everything around us, just not us.