I bake you cookies
in the night quiet.
A hundred sugars cover my hands,
like talc on moist fingers,
no matter how hard I try.
I mean to feed you a new cookie
as you dream in your bed in darkness.
You never notice the crumbs
until you wake and wipe them
into your mouth in a sweet fever.
Leaving only a last few
lost in your silken folds
that you demand I search out.
My fault for baking a
tender cookie.
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