I want it all—
the bread, the butter, the crackle of crust,
rich and fat with something sweet,
dripping down my chin, I don't care.
Let the sauces spill,
fill my hands with the soft weight of fruit,
the tang of salt and sugar,
everything warm, everything full.
I crave it, heavy, bold—
the sizzling, the melting,
the skin of the roasted,
the rich broth that sticks to the spoon,
to the lips.