amy cakes

Delicate wind floats from the west,
carrying soft scents of jasmine
and salt
from ocean 150 miles away.
Waves kissing sand find me,
even here in my bed; awake.
Head to the footboard.
Feet to the headboard.
A midnight breeze
is a welcome friend to the
sleepless weepless women
of this central region.
Teeth can clench,
lips can curl to mask pain
of so much amassed over
these wayward years.
Mouth can crave
the cupcake that was handfed
to it. The brilliant
little morsel that made
all so believable.
It's a recipe of flour, salt,
sugar, butter
something to make it rise and
wish. Something toothsome to frost
the cake with.
Candles burn not to bring in
another year, but to fend off
greedy digits, looking for a lick.
Sweet sweet whipped up icing
with a sea salt glaze.
So fine and choice on
tongue tip,
(but the after taste,
the film,
leaves something to be desired.)
Besides, the bed is no place
for a cupcake.