You are a cookie

I need but can’t touch,

full of chocolatey chips and the stuff

of miracles.

And they all say you’re mine

but you’re so far above

that I cannot yet reach you,

my one truest love.

The jar may be open

and the way may be clear,

but between us

I’ve seen us

reaching close but not near.

Your days in the spotlight

are just not like mine.

You’re just out of reach, and just out of time.

(My day off and yours

are a pitiful joke,

just missed by the management

that won’t care to look.)

And an hour before bed

just isn’t enough,

so though you have told me

to hang and stay tough,

we’re still just that riddle

I can’t ever solve:

our future so tenuous,

but bursting with love—

dough rising beneath

a hot burning stove,

browning at random,

a mystery to probe.

My bitterness makes me weak

contained in my brain

and boiling over

not strong or deadly

except to myself.

To harden the hardship and

force the foreignness away

is my greatest challenge

and biggest possible gift

if only I have the strength to open it

and hold it within.