At the heart of her macaroon,
fiction relies on complimentary ganache
as well as white chocolate confection
to feed its stories.

Cheeks bake carmine pink.
Cafe Impresso Expresso drinks

cost four dollars and ninety-nine cents.

I sip on Frappucino sunshine,
while she takes out her purse—tasselled in suede.

Her fairytale-like character;
embellished appearances,
consist cuteness.

She’s a skilled raconteur.
I love how she exaggerates prose—
puffing thunder words
with no room for discussions.

Right now, I need a coffee bean,
so I can wish myself to become
just like her.

She takes another elf bite;
baristas mouthe customer orders.

Best friends dramatize perfect Tuesdays,
and mold them into something special.
I guess that explains why we’ve stuck.
Her artsy nails coruscate chevron.
She slurps from her milkshake mug.

Lunchtime is for losers.
Dessert hours remains a super-

-duper period of saccharine communication.


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