Sharing food, feeding each other.
Cooking. Together. Or solely for You, as you watch my every move, my every rip and chop and mix and cut. Listening to your sounds, your singing, your melodic thoughts weaving around my head, blankets of words warming me up, making me blush inwards and tinyscream outwards. I like your voice. I have some of it on external memories, ready to play and replay and again and again as I walk around my house, or bike home from work and am in need of soothing strings. I want your voice around me when I cook for you. Sitting Voice. Standing Voice. Expected unexpected hug from the back Voice. Hands gliding down, downwards, closewards. Cooking. Cocking. Hands all over. When I’m finished, you finish me off. You clean up the mess you made. I calm down, and go down for the dinner you’ve always got ready for me, warm and saucy, I go down. You eat. I eat. We eat.