If butter could talk, it would sound like him.
His voice a melted cream on the tongue
leaves a lightly-coated gloss between
each bend and crease of my limbs.

He tucks a bowl-shaped serving of fusili curls
behind ears warmed pink with virgin olive oil swirls.
But he can keep his pasta dinner as long as I can savor
his milk truffle eyes and eat his hazelnut centers.

He tells me my kitchen burns an oven so hot,
he is ashamed he doesn't bake more often.
He would marinade me for hours until my flesh turned
tender-moist, ready to cook slowly from the inside out.

He tells me he would sear me in my juices over high heat
then bring me down a few notches to simmer a while
before serving me hot.