I Was Baking This Morning

I still think of you—every time my hand

wraps around a box of baking soda.

Months ago I would have told you that.

Now I keep it to myself.

My thoughts are no longer reciprocated, magically,

like Potter’s secret Tom Riddle diary.

That diary was evil anyway—ending up

on the wrong side of a basilisk’s fang.

Good riddance!

​

And yet,

I want to send you pictures, unsolicited.

Bombard your brain with every inch of my skin

until I’ve seared myself into your synapses, selfishly,

just because I cannot cleanse you out of my own—

wash you away with vinegar

the same way I rid the coffee maker of calcium.

I want to, but I shouldn’t,

drag you by the hand down the alley of our past.

You say I’m like your sister and I cringe.

The photos sit…in limbo. I never hit send.

​

I wonder if the association will fade.

If baking soda will one day bring to mind

the banana bread I made this morning,

or my sister’s professional level Christmas cookies,

or if my first thought will always be—

of the bitter taste in my mouth

when you left me too distracted

to properly measure teaspoons.

​

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