I admit it is beautiful to bake, yet the mind feels like a pizza base poked by forks
I would believe that helps in baking it to a firmness when it's pizza
This mind is poked by the forks of your thoughts and longing
Would you like some pizza? I could send it over and your office isn't far away
Would it seem acceptable to send food, when you seem to not want my presence itself
It is a dilemma I am dealing with and it makes my mind sear on this grill of your absence
You probably have drowned my thoughts anyway, like cheese does the sauce
Well, as the pizza bakes, I watch it with a keen eye drawing parallels to my soul
Unlike the cheese that is being toasted in the heat, my heart ebbs fading beats
When the oven rings in completion of its twenty-minute cycle and 180 degrees
I stand there contemplating if I have the will to eat it alone this time again.
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