The other day I dreamed

I was dating a cheese pizza.

It initiated physical contact

by holding my hand

as we walked through a forest.

Concealed by pines, we used

the privacy of their needles

to chance a first kiss,

and it tasted really good,

and smelled nice too.

It had an authentic way about it

that made it come off strong,

but not pretentious.

Thanks for the kiss

I told the pizza.

But the pizza couldn’t

say you’re welcome

on account of it not having

a mouth, it being a pizza.

That was when

I started gathering small sticks

I’d use to make it one.

I even gathered a mushroom,

which I added as a nose.

I knew that it having

an olfactory system

probably wouldn’t matter,

that it wouldn’t matter as much

as my learning how to be content

with silence,

which, for better or for worse, is,

to a certain extent, I suppose,

what I’m actually dating.