Love Boils Over

The rosy, red tureen like an autumn blend,

Cedarwood and pepper tones.

A maroon shirt with black slacks, a man on-trend.

Followed by a rumble like thunder, tucked inside your bones.

The delicate hold of laser-cut glass, you cupped my face.

A gush of sea salt through the tiny round window, more deadly than the blowfish.

Caught between the boiling pot and your sweet embrace,

Knees buckling, losing grip of the pot – disgrace– another ruined dish.

“You are a chef with no soul!”

Echoed in the tiled room.

“Leave it to the professionals and go on the dole!”

It cursed me to my doom.

Warm cinnamon and sugar sweet,

Grill the peaches and score in the charcoal lines.

A signature divine to end it neat,

The hope to win back the dimes.

“He’s right you know. About your soul.”

My heart cries, his French accent isn't on my side.

“Go through the eye of the needle, grab the loophole.”

“You are too much logic, melt it down use your raw emotional stride.”

You’re as predictable as a textbook,

Like a timber caught in the fire trying to dance.

A sea of emotions will pressure cook,

Taste the explosion of pepper, salt, and caramelized butter - a dish of romance.

Forget the dimes, embrace the raw experience.

I became the egg he was whisking, my heart pounding to the beat – the tapping of his shoes.

A man of growth, of character so divine, finally something victorious.

Lip quivering, a minty freshness calms my body, as he whispers –

“Beloved I am your sous, call me Hughes.”