Chocoholic by Stephanie Wooten Koreneff

Yes, I’m aware that I’m old enough
to know how to share, but no,
I can’t share my chocolate cake,
not even with you, my loving
boyfriend who gave it to me.

I have to eat it one forkful
at a time, slowly, like those
ridiculous commercials on TV,
letting the cream cheese frosting
melt on my tongue first before
I even think of the next bite.
I close my eyes, linger in the moment,
not caring about the look you’re
giving me from across the table,
your restraint and my sharp fork
the only things keeping you from
reaching over and  stealing a bite.

The cake is fluffy and moist.
I wonder if this is what eating
a cloud would be like,
minus the chocolate. Clouds would be
vanilla flavored, or maybe like the
whipped cream you put on pie,
but why think about that when
my cake is almost gone?

One little bite amongst a few crumbs
is all that remains on my plate.
I look across the table where you wait,
longing in your hazel eyes as you stare
at the last bite. I slowly lift my fork
and you suck in a slow breath, bite
your bottom lip.
With a sigh, I put the fork down
and slide the plate to you.

“Fine, have the last bite.”