Dark Creme

The kitchen dark, the oven's chill,

I tore the plastic, standing still.

One cookie then another went,

my sadness almost well-spent.

The crumbs fell down, a sugary snow,

where the cheap rug used to glow.

The cream, too sweet, a gritty paste,

a flavor I could hardly taste

beyond the need, the hollow space.

My fingers sticky, leaving trace

on packaging, a crinkled thing,

the end of what the moment brings.

A final bite, a heavy sigh,

watching the last dark cookie die.

The quiet house, the settled air,

just crumbs, and me, and being there.