My friend is a croissant.
He is French and fancy,
just like the pastry.
With his "plain" appearance
he exudes effortless elegance;
his simple style screams Parisian chic—
easy on the eyes; not necessarily to mimic.
To befriend him is to bake a croissant.
Put great effort
like the bakers who labor
to procure a priceless reward.
I invested my time and spent it with him
to prove that I did not seek a fling.
And after I buttered and rolled the dough,
I reaped what I sowed
and earned a treasure:
a friend who would stand by me, forever.
My friend is a croissant, inside and out.
At first, he wears a thin cover
like the pastry's crisp outer layer.
But underneath his flaky shell,
a soft and sultry core dwells.
His dark demeanor may intimidate
those with whom he is not intimate.
It flaked and shed as I became closer;
more familiar and less a stranger.
His inner self has several sides
like the many layers the pastry hides;
one by one, they come to light,
each one beautiful and bright.
As our bond deepens and grows
a part of him becomes unclothed.
Once-absent faces become present,
each one lighter and warmer than the antecedent.
His rare, radiant smile never fails to warm me
like freshly baked bread from the boulangerie.
Sometimes he brings surprise
when certain sides of him arise;
though each layer is clearly separate,
together, they form someone immaculate.
My friend, now lover, is a croissant.
His cologne only tempts
like the pastry's savory scent
and his lips leave a lasting trace
like the pastry's buttery taste.
His breathy whisper soothes and seduces;
an ardent desire, he educes.
His tender touch is oh-so potent.
All time stops for a moment.
Then my hands wrap around him and hold him tight
and my mouth opens wide
and I devour.
Every part of him, I savor.
Fingers furl through locks of hair
or caress cheeks and other skin left bare;
hands hold the waist or slip to hips
as we lock gazes and lips.
As we intertwine
our hearts align;
our breaths grow hot and heavy
like his beauteous body.
We two become one.
After all is said and done,
what is left of him is a mess—
the result of hunger unsuppressed.
My lover is a croissant.
Warm and tender,
rich in layers,
and nothing but pure pleasure.
YOU ARE READING
from the depths of my mind, they flutter free
Poetry𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 @𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 @𝐂𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐲 An assortment of poems. From personal experiences and miscellaneous musings to feelings that have long lingered in me, this book contains poems insp...
