Our hands touch, inside the bowl,

covered with butter and salt,

is that the last piece?

Our eyes meet,


our hands frantically search,

you grab the last kernel.

“I let you have it”, I say smiling,

 popping some more,

“What’s this movie?”,

you mention Jimmy Stewart,

back with a fresh bowl,

I lean over,

for my reward,

you whisper,

“this is a good movie…!”

Who cares about the movie,

all I can see is your face,

covered with butter and salt.

 Poetry © Copyright 2015, nicodemasplusthree

17 thoughts on “Popcorn

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