Poetry

Got Home Late

Came home late. and he had been here for a while, and he had made pork with onions. I know he did. I also know that he pan fried it, because the sweet, sweet aroma of that meaty musk; the tinge of that pan-seared perfection still lingers delicately in the air; and are seriously fucking torturing me right now. So, Damn you John. damn you, and your perfectly golden, certainly tender, impeccably pan seared dinnerโ€ฆ that I missed.

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