She says they are just words on a page

topped with crushed pencil shavings and blotted ink;

they are just hills of crayons delicately roasted into its nooks and crannies and spine

but its spine is a three-tier chocolaty wonderland of love and innocence –

that cook book is a meal.

She mixes,

and as she does

she,

swears that this will go well with the cup of skittles

and illusion tea that I've poured out for her.

She fills in mold after mold,

singing that surely Pontius

would have let go of all his hate

had he tasted this rice.

She says that the air kissed the water

which cuddled the flour that baked this cake so wonderfully

but she swears my words, are just as sweet.

We say that we’re top chefs with fingers that can cut butter and air –

Tastes buds that can smell the soft aroma of well baked cookies from Austin, Texas,

Skin so sensitive we can feel the dough rising –

Eyes so hard we can stir a pot of soup with a glance

Language so juicy they say our words are just three-tiered pastels,

roasted in creativity and topped with chocolate.