Burnt porridge:
The smell noxious
Taste foul
Sickening
Yet swallowed hurriedly
A few mouthfuls
Forced down
Nourishment for the body
However odious- yet it is necessary.
Time without you.
Each mouthful
Divine
Precious caviar
Forkful after forkful
And the wine
Clear, heady
The bouquet rare
Taste to be savored
After the last contented mouthful
Dissolves into satiated oblivion.
Every moment in your company.
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