Peach Cobbler

You stirred the pot,
taking parts of you,
parts of me
the good, the bad,
even the things that aren’t
so pretty to look at.

You poured them into the pan.

It’s easy to forget about
the hurt until you come
face to face with it.

Sour peaches aren’t the end
of the world,
no matter how we layer it.

These are the things
we’ve come to love
about each other
even the hurt,
mixed in a sugar glaze
with enough time.

No matter how bitter,
the brown of my skin
mixed with yours
a recipe done and passed down
long before our time.

No matter how much of a mess
we think things are,
no matter how bruised a peach
we accidentally pick up,
nothing can replace
the warmth of a cobbler,
straight from the oven.

Soon, we’ll both be fast asleep,
your head rising and falling
on my chest
with each breath I take.