a shitty poem about eggs – by emma harris

i remember making eggs for you love

i made them just how you liked them

blackened with pepper

sprinkled with thyme and rosemary

sunny side up with crispy whites and a tender yolk 

so a golden river would drizzle down onto your toast

at the slightest poke of the fork

i buttered the pan with the stick

i’d lick my fingers and stare at you with a grin

the ocean breeze blew through

lifting my white dress slightly above my hips

you’d follow its direction with your warm hands

pressing them firmly against my ass

i would moan into your lips 

well i made them for you today 

but your seat was empty

so i ate them alone

and i forgot to tell you

i hate rosemary

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