the cookie is simple
plain mass-produced shortbread
trailing crumbs i’ll soon step on
and grind into the rug
but
taking a bite
tastes like sunday afternoons
at her dining room table in early december
drinking swiss miss hot chocolate
before she began her boycott on calories
like shivering at the cash box
behind the scratched-up plastic folding table
outside our local busch’s in the harshest part of winter
pestering shoppers cocooned in their knee-length puffers
until someone gave in
and bought our cheap factory cookies
like binging on yellow fondant
on her kitchen floor
by the light of the oven clock at 3 in the morning
because she couldn’t sleep and we got hungry
like holding her close as she sobbed
when her dog died
like holding headstands in her living room
when her new dog came home
like holding her gaze for a beat too long
and hoping she got the hint
like holding her hand as she fawned over boys
and wishing she wasn't so blinded to me
like experimental kissing on the top bunk in her room
she said she felt nothing but i knew i did
and i’ll always remember that night
or was it morning
when i realized i liked her too much
and she tasted like those cookies.