pasta

It was the restaurant in the market where she met him, the pasta place where she got lunch once a week. She was crushin’ hard but just could not bring herself to tell him.

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It started as most stories do,
with penne for her lunch,
she washed it down with a cold brew,
and watched him as she munched.
This noodle extruding pasta man,
his puns were just delightful,
simmering there in his saucepan,
their potency was frightful.
She saw him work and dance around,
the kitchen was his stage,
his every word was flavortown,
rosemary and chopped sage.
It was a tortellini Thursday,
it was a pesto covered week,
it was marinara foreplay,
it was a sauced kiss on the cheek.
She spent every single day there,
falling deeper in the hole,
pasta packed her every dream,
and filled her every bowl.
He yearned to get to know her,
and she'd love to know him too,
but her urge to eat more pasta,
just grew, and grew, and grew.
All those weeks turned into years,
as she felt a shift inside,
she knew she had to face her fears,
and overcome her pride.
And finally she told him,
what she'd always known was true,
"Hey, I don't need a man no more,
cause pasta is my beau."