I'm bad at baking

I am half a cup too much of second guessing and you are two teaspoons short of what feels real. We are a recipe for disaster, I know this even before we folded ourselves into the pan that fit and moulded any other two hearts that felt just about right. It's the kind of picturesque you and I are not. We are different, sometimes opposites like sugar and spice, you add the two together and you'll get the kind of taste that stings your tongue and sends that tingle down the back of your spine — when we lock eyes it's like having neurons sent directly to every other nerve in my body. We are an explosion of flavours and sparks from a single firework — we are beautiful not in the way white picket fences line mowed lawns, not in the way Christmas lights lit up streets. We are momentary and that is what makes everything a million times more worth folding and keeping in the front of my right pocket because that is where I stuff my hands whenever things go off-track and I guess, that is when I need you.