Sometimes I dream about the half eaten dinner for two rotting in my fridge

Lusting for the time when that goose was first cooked

My jaws clench at the very thought of your stuffing smothered in your natural gravy

Until I remember the fur you now wear

I sometimes wonder how the pot must feel to hold your warmth

Much like a cup feels when its holding hot midday tea

The steamy confines must have opened every porous inch of your metallic surface

Just enough, so that your potent smells overwhelms the air of every room

I envy the utensils used to devour you

As they prod and poke until the tender pieces are ready for consumption

The proud metals and plastics with such noble duty as to feed the hungry

However must suffer as they bath in the mixture of fluids

If only I could taste what I craved for in the beginning 

To start all over from when we were first introduced

Smelling your sweet aroma for the first time you were placed upon the stove top

Though regurgitating you could only ruin first impressions