peanut butter pie

tumbled down with

tangled hair but you don’t care

for the pleasantries. no, you

are the special kind,

the only kind that understands

me. that draws my emotions out and helps me breathe

when i have pulled tight the drawstrings of the

sweatshirt you bought for me on sale.

but we are not a bargain.

we are the real stuff, like the label half-ripped off

of the peanut butter jar announces. from which i make you

your favorite pie the first day of every month

and even though you know, you act surprised each time just for me,

kissing me with oreo-crust-lips and smearing pie filling onto my nose.

yesterday you made me chocolate cream pie.

my favorite.