Painting with the light of the moon

i made your favorite dish. i made you something you’ve never tried before. i love you. i spent twenty minutes chopping. my grandmother made this for me when i was little. i made this dairy free for you. i love you. i want to eat together. the onions made me cry. i love you. i learned this recipe for you. i love you. i made this special for your birthday. i love you. i know you don’t like peppers. i love you. i love you. i love you.

Every day i think about self recognition through the other

[text id: ive always thought of running errands as the most intimate form of bonding// here: i now reveal myself to you with what kind of milk i buy, how i tell if a i buy, watermelon is ripe or not. i helped him choose ingredients for pasta (chili, zucchini, spinach, feta, pine nuts), and felt a burst of gratitude at this show of trust. // walking along the citrus aisle i sensed a contentment i hadn't felt for a long while. looked down into the basket, filled with both our stuff mingled together - impossible to tell which lemon belonged to who. i thought, a little rebelliously, that if i could share a basket of groceries i knew i was capable of sharing a day with someone. this heavy basket of food. overflowing and intermingling, was my proof of that fact. in all it's mundane intimacy. end id]