My best friend sends me a picture of the Indomie she just made,
I say to her: “You can tell how a person loves from the way they cook Indomie,
I say cook not make,
Because people that say make, think cooking is an art,
They believe that sex is the same thing as making love,
That love is a thing we can make,
That sunsets are worth watching,
That the train they can hear in the distance is coming for them,
And that flowers that bloom must be plucked.
If the person puts carrots and onions and cabbage and those little green things that feel like beads on the tongue,
Then you know they have something to hide,
Like those lovers that come without baggage,
Who think they can cover all the places they are leaking, if they love you enough,
They make you feel like you just drank a glass full of water,
Yet, you are still thirsty,
What if it is plain?
Then you know they will leave you,
But they will leave you with a smile,
A smile the size of a post card that says,
I tried to stay,
But the train came for me.
You won’t find closure,
But it will end,
There will be questions,
But isn’t this how we were made?