Today I’ve made a pie.

A pie of thoughts, of half-shaped sentences,

of feelings without hands to hold them,

of memories that slip through the cracks.

I knead the past into the dough—

it stretches, resists, gives way,

folding in on itself.

Still, I wonder about the shape.

Should it be round, a closed circle,

or something broken, asymmetric,

a form that forgets itself?

The taste—

bitter in places where longing settled,

sweet where childhood left its fingerprints,

a sharpness, unexpected,

like the first bite into an old memory

you thought was already chewed and swallowed.

And the texture—

crumbly, fragile, like unsent letters,

flaky, like pages of a book read too often,

dense, heavy,

like the weight of unsaid things.

I pull it from the oven,

watch the steam rise—

ghosts of words never spoken,

warm air filled with something

I can never quite name.

And then,

before it cools,

before I decide if it’s finished,

I eat it.

Piece by piece,

thought by thought,

until nothing remains

but the silence of the plate.