Dear John:

It's over, done, fini! Our affair at best was half baked. All you ever wanted was my dough. I kneaded you. I was young, untested, full of sugar and spice and kneaded love. You never buttered me up or even sent flours. All you ever did was mix me up. I was nuts about you. I hated being treated like a tart. I wanted to be more than the frosting on your cake. I never measured up. What was the batter with you? I've been burned. I knead time to sift my emotions. I'm pudding my heart on the shelf to cool. It may never rise again--so flake off, you crumb!

Cupcake

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