#theaterarts episode 2 Activity by @waterandfire08âŚ
6 reactions
#theaterarts episode 2
Activity by
If My Last Love Bites Were Pizza?
1 đThey said, â Donât fall in love with dough, â
but the crustâoh, it had secrets,
whispers of garlic and ghosts of oregano
that danced the tango beneath the cheese moonlight.
I took one bite and time applauded.
Even my cholesterol held its breath.
2đ This wasn'tâlunch.
It was Act III of an opera sung by mozzarellaâ
a high note of basil,
a tragic soprano of spicy sausage
screaming in marinara
as a pepperoni chorus tap-danced across my tongue.
Encore, my mouth begged. Encore.
3đ I chased that slice through alleyways of melted magic,
dodging kale evangelists
and the ghosts of salads past.
It led me to a neon-lit gondola made of crust,
and we sailed into sauce-soaked constellations,
where pineapple is legal
and no one judges your fifth slice.
4đ What ifâwhat ifâthese are my last love bites?
Then let my lips be the chapel
where mozzarella and memory are wed.
Let my teeth be the witnesses,
my napkin, the priest.
Let no one interrupt this holy communion
with calorie math or green opinions.
5đ So I say, bless the grease that kisses my chin.
Bless the oven, the reckless cheese stretch,
the unapologetic joy of the last crust corner.
And when Iâm goneâif I goâ
lay me down in a deep-dish tomb,
whispering:
He lived. He laughed. He ordered extra.
Activity by
If My Last Love Bites Were Pizza?
1 đThey said, â Donât fall in love with dough, â
but the crustâoh, it had secrets,
whispers of garlic and ghosts of oregano
that danced the tango beneath the cheese moonlight.
I took one bite and time applauded.
Even my cholesterol held its breath.
2đ This wasn'tâlunch.
It was Act III of an opera sung by mozzarellaâ
a high note of basil,
a tragic soprano of spicy sausage
screaming in marinara
as a pepperoni chorus tap-danced across my tongue.
Encore, my mouth begged. Encore.
3đ I chased that slice through alleyways of melted magic,
dodging kale evangelists
and the ghosts of salads past.
It led me to a neon-lit gondola made of crust,
and we sailed into sauce-soaked constellations,
where pineapple is legal
and no one judges your fifth slice.
4đ What ifâwhat ifâthese are my last love bites?
Then let my lips be the chapel
where mozzarella and memory are wed.
Let my teeth be the witnesses,
my napkin, the priest.
Let no one interrupt this holy communion
with calorie math or green opinions.
5đ So I say, bless the grease that kisses my chin.
Bless the oven, the reckless cheese stretch,
the unapologetic joy of the last crust corner.
And when Iâm goneâif I goâ
lay me down in a deep-dish tomb,
whispering:
He lived. He laughed. He ordered extra.
6
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