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the cookie is simple

plain mass-produced shortbread

trailing crumbs i’ll soon step on

and grind into the rug



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.