A dialogue between... They say readers are smart. You work it out.
Begins:
My heart, my heart, why did you take my heart?
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Because you left it lying on the kitchen counter next to the jam jar, and frankly, it looked neglected.
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And then, pray tell, where have you misplaced it, for there is no other heart that smells so sweet as my own jam slathered heart shaped tart.
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Ah, therein lies the tragedy, my confectionary paramour — I ate it. I thought it dessert, not devotion.
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Egads!
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Indeed! And now I'm haunted by the taste of regret — and possibly raspberry.
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With what shall I now soothe my wounded heart,
without my sweet and jammy tart?
How long shall I stand and opine
the loss of such a pastry divine?
Should you not give me some compensation
For such a crime of devastation?
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Alas, my butterfingered remorse compels me!
Take, instead, this humble croissant of consolation—
half-burnt, wholly unworthy, yet risen from the ashes of my shame.
Will you forgive, if not forget, this flaky restitution?
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Croissant? You call this a croissant of consolation?
Alas, there is no salvation.
Have you really no abnegation?
This tiny morsel,
A piece, a crumb!
To the temptation of a croissant have you succumbed.
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'Tis true, my gluttony knows no bounds nor brakes—
I bit before I thought, and thought after the flakes.
Yet if you'll pardon my pastry transgression,
I'll bake anew—a feast, a confession!
Name your dessert, my wounded muse,
and I'll whisk redemption 'til you choose.
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A feast! A feast of treats, both savoury and sweet,
Such a confession would be acceptably meet,
To heal my heart of devastation
And bring forth love toward the nation.
For your cheek a kiss might I bestow,
Unless you deal my heart another blow.
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Then hear me vow, o tart-bereft queen,
By oven's glow and mixing sheen—
No crumb shall fall, no crust shall burn,
Till your fond smile at last return.
I'll craft éclairs that sigh with cream,
And pies that steam like lovers' dream.
But—ah!—should my soufflé fall flat…
Would you still kiss a fool like that?
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A souffle that might fall flat
may well be used for practice with my bat,
But then again to avoid waste,
Why not wrap it in pastry and baste?
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Ha! Such wisdom drips from sugared lips—
you turn my failure into tips!
A fallen soufflé, reborn anew,
wrapped and basted, golden hue!
Perhaps we'll call it Soufflé en Croute,
a dish of shame turned oddly cute.
Would you then dine, my culinary muse,
or still accuse my wayward ruse?
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A veritable feast may be sufficient
To obtain forgiveness, be beneficent,
To brighten my eyes, my day, my life,
But then I remember a sordid tale
Of how you sought another wife…
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Ah—caught in confectionary crime again!
That tale, I swear, is frosted with sin and spun of rumor's pen.
'Twas not another wife I sought—
but merely another tart I bought!
Her crust was crisp, her filling fair—
yet lacked your jam, your tender care.
Can you forgive this pastry flirtation,
or shall I face eternal marzipan damnation?
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Daily must I sweat and toil,
To keep my sweets from sight lest you bespoil.
Tell me not that 'tis for my tooth,
When I hear 'tis yours that bears the truth.
The dentist said to keep away,
And yet his words hold over you no sway.
When from such heavy burden will I be free
To taste again mine own pastry?
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Oh cruel fate! Oh sugared snare!
You see right through my frosting fair.
I've sworn a thousand diets hence,
yet crumble at the faintest scents.
Each tart, each puff, each cream éclat—
they whisper, "Eat me, gourmand pariah."
But if you guard your sweets from me,
how shall I prove fidelity?
Must I subsist on crusts of penance,
and gaze, forlorn, at your confections hence?
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I know not what else to say,
I'd rather burrow in the hay.
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Then let us flee the kitchen's snare,
and hide where sugar scents the air—
in hayloft high 'neath moonlit beams,
we'll trade our sweets for rustic dreams.
No tart, no pie, no croissant's gleam,
just whispered laughter and shared cream…
(Though—purely dairy, I do avow,
lest scandal rise like bread just now.)
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Scandalous!
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Indeed! A scandal wrapped in straw,
with hay for sheets and hearts in awe.
We risk the blush, we tempt the fates,
while I confess my pastry straits.
Yet, my dear, in this rustic plight,
shall we kiss under starlit light?
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I know you not, my summered rogue,
I'll pretend I heard no suggested vogue.
Hie to bed and dream abroad.
I'll give your hint no applaud.
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Alas! Rebuffed with rhymèd grace—
I slink away, jam on my face.
To bed I go, my hopes all spent,
my crumbs of charm quite ill‑bent.
Yet should you wake at dawn's first gleam,
remember me—a foolish dream,
half sugar, half contrition's art,
still yearning for your tart‑shaped heart.