By OutClique writer

Love begins like butter

left on the counter,

softening slowly,

learning how to yield.

It’s measured in teaspoons of courage,

cups of laughter,

and that reckless extra splash of vanilla

because the recipe feels right.

We preheat our hearts to 350°,

no shortcuts, no microwave miracles,

only the warm promise of something rising.

You fold into me

like egg whites into sugar 

gentle, deliberate,

refusing to break the air we worked so hard to whip.

Some days we crack.

Some days we collapse.

Some days the dough sticks, the timer lies,

and the oven light flickers with doubt.

But then 

flour-dusted hands find each other,

we scrape the bowl,

taste the batter,

laugh with chocolate on our lips

and decide to keep going.

We proof in the quiet moments,

expand in the heat,

learn the patience of yeast

and the bravery of bloom.

Our kisses are brûléed 

sugar torched until the surface shatters

and the sweetness underneath stays molten.

We ice each other with soft promises,

drizzle the future in caramel plans,

sprinkle hope like nonpareils

because everything looks better

with a little sparkle.

When the world turns bitter,

we add honey.

When it’s too dark,

we zest an orange.

When it’s too cold,

we bake again.

And when the timer finally sings,

we pull each other from the oven 

golden, imperfect,

cracked in the right places,

still warm enough to share.

So here’s my heart,

served on a chipped plate,

still rising,

still sweet,

still yours.

Happy Valentine’s Day.