"Raw" by Robert Bruce

[[Raw]]

Emotions.

Cracked and crumbled.

Whisked and battered till the tender, oozing yellow yolk of the situation

Becomes too easily miscible in the white bed sheets we once slept in.

You can’t escape them.

Then watch them poured out and sizzled slowly

Under the scorching scrutiny of the blazing sun

So everyone can see just how raw they are.

I remember too well the mornings

When even the charcoal gray of a forlorn dawn

Would give way to the sweet, succulent scent

Of a fresh, brisk sunrise.

Your attempts at culinary counterfeit were flattering,

Countless shells banished to failed dreams of life,

Gallons of bright orange radiance lost to the cracks of the earth,

All for the name of

An elaborate arousal.

But it was that minty fresh aftertaste

That only a chef extraordinaire could perfect,

Driving even the most refined palette wild.

The timbrel and lyre from the lip-smacking richness

Would make even the singing bluebird jealous, yielding

Only to the crashing reality

That the sun sprinting eastward meant another day had come,

Conspiring to drive us apart.

But we managed to keep our secret.

That brief embrace made every burnt piece of toast

And every stubbed toe while wildly searching for the bathroom

Worth it.

And yet, Helios is a jealous man.

You couldn’t understand the ground we had broken

By stealing the morning back from the gods,

Complaining I was only tossing you the tablescraps.

So here I stand over cracked porcelain

And reflections from heartless, blackened steel

Trying desperately to cover up

The hunger of emotions that you exposed.

But you killed the Golden Goose

When you walked out the door.

So now all I’ve got left are these

Emotions.