18.7.25
“I tell you what,” he said jokingly as he wiped his lip. “In my next life, I’m gonna be a cook.”
May the salt still leap to your fingers,
the flame still obey your breath,
and the cumin still bloom at your touch.
You always said you’d return as a cook—
knowing you were one in this life too,
as charming as you were exacting.
Experimental in love as in spice.
You honoured my ‘alien’ ways,
crafted meals like devotions,
each plate a vow
to make me feel you.
You fed with intention—
my longing to be tended to
gently, joyfully,
by one who delights in the offering.
If you return—
I’ll know you
by your hands,
your laughter,
and the way you make a kitchen
feel like home.
“And?” he asked through a smile with his eyebrows raised quizzically, already knowing the answer. “How’s your meal?”
She chewed the bite-full of the mushroom thoughtfully, also already knowing the answer but enjoying the game nonetheless. “Hm, I love this. It’s great!”
“No,” came his casually satisfied reply. “It’s fucking awesome.”
-Lele
Lele Muthali 