Love is...

.....covering.

...covering a cutting board with tin foil. Romance? Buying a new frying pan. Complete trust? Eating.

Taking the first bite...

I had to turn away. I didn't want him to see me, at least not yet. My eyes betrayed me, unveiled me, and I stood stockingfooted in his kitchen, as bare as the floor. Shadowy souled windows would have told him everything, welling with tears -- the spring of which had been purposely plugged and covered with dirt. Desire dusted off...bruised, buried, and busied for safe keeping. My self, like a monk's manuscript, illuminated by closing the cover...spine creased...

...but not broken in binding.

The thread holds.

This covering makes me hungry...and for the first time, I am not scared to eat of it.