The cookies I made

I made peanut butter cookies for you.

I had been planning them for a week

In my head, ticking off the items

In a checklist of gathered love,

And oats, I love oat cookies, I thought very highly

Of oat cookies.

The day before your birthday, I was seized

By lethargy.

I was seized by lethargy and I confess,

The day went by, the cookies remained unbaked.

Somewhere the culinary devil poked me

I was hesitating, wondering how you would

Like my cookies.

I worried, what would you say,

How would I give them to you? What if

What if I didn’t give them-

But, I could almost see you bite into one

Your mouth full of crumbs as you mumble

‘That it tastes great’.

I stirred the butter, the flour,

Almost out of vanilla essence, I noted

My mind drifting to the problems of

Whether I should gift you cookies.

What if you thought it too much?

I never made good in the kitchen,

Would I come off as overbearing?

Then I think, of the damage between us,

The gap between us

till I feel only you can go further

Not nearer, we have kept our friendship

On ventilators, begging for euthanasia.

Like the old grandmothers you keep barely breathing

To not demolish your childhood even,

Even when she despairs in senile pain,

We drag our carcasses in the dust.

The microwave dings, the cookies are baked.

I pull out the tray with careful ease,

My nose infused with such a glorious smell

Of nutty butter and the crunch of oats on

The chewy warm biscuits already,

Flooding my tongue, and I can hear your smile

Till,

Till, I recall, you are allergic to peanuts,

And oats.

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