Burnt Dinner
The first time you said it I was standing over a stove oil whispering, garlic catching that edge between golden and gone
I remember thinking don't burn this don't mess this up like the pan held more than dinner like it held whatever we were becoming
You were behind me glass of red wine quiet in that way that isn't empty just full of something waiting
I felt you before I heard you your arms sliding around my waist your cheek against my back your breath warm through my shirt like a second heartbeat I didn't know I'd been missing
"I love you"
Soft Almost lost in the sizzle Almost like you didn't mean to let it escape
And I froze wooden spoon mid-air time snapping like a thread pulled too tight
Because no one warns you that it won't feel like fireworks won't be loud or cinematic sometimes it's just onions sweating in a pan a cheap apartment kitchen a song half-playing from another room
But it hit deeper than anything loud ever could
I turned probably too slow probably looking like I didn't understand the language you just spoke
and maybe I didn't yet
But I saw it in your eyes steady, terrifying, real not asking for anything back just offering
And suddenly the smoke alarm went off of course it did because I forgot everything else existed
You laughed pulled away to wave a towel at the ceiling and I stood there with something new burning in my chest that had nothing to do with the stove
"I love you too" I said finally like learning how to walk again careful, unsure but meaning every step
Dinner was ruined We ate it anyway
And I swear to a god it tasted like the beginning of something we didn't know how to hold yet but tried to with both hands
