The way I feel about you is the way I feel about pizza. You’re lovely when you’re hot
but so much better when you’ve gone cold.
When you shut someone down,
a cool remark,
an icy glare.
It makes me want you ever more.
You’re round and bready, but I’d still eat you after 6pm. You come in a variety of flavours, depending on mood.
If you get left out, outside of my attention, you curl up, harden, go a bit crusty.
You feed my hunger yet make me thirsty.
You speak directly to my base desires: Italian, crispy, stuffed crust.
Kept on my toes with your diverse choice of topics.
Pineapple’s probably my favourite.
This poem was supposed to be about love, but I guess I was just hungry.