Desire For The Right Recipe

scent of bread  
drifts lazily
lined loaves sit cooling on the counter  
I reach out
take one  
rich crust cracks beneath my searching fingers  
a light steam rises as the next batch  
are slid into the oven  
 
you tutt at my indiscretion  
shaking your head with a knowing smirk  
there's flour in your hair  
a wisp of white  
a small bead of sweat trickles down you brow  
you absently wipe it away with the back of your hand  
 
and I realise what its like  
to break like bread  
rise with steam and fervour  
as if hungry is a sixth sense  
tacked onto a vision of you  
and a flavour that demands  
to be consumed  
 
grabbing a spatula  
swatting your ass with it  
was like altering a recipe  
and running off the page  
 
gripping your hips  
against your semi-reflexive no  
that collapsed into a yes  
as you bit my lip  
 
my hand buried in your hair  
 
baby I'm sorry because  
for some reason I need to taste all of you  
and I don't care if the next batch burns