Flaky

Flaky—an adjective that rolls like a pastry in the wind,
Soft, layered, bright, a buttery cloud that basks in afternoon light.
Its crumb falls on the tongue like a well‑made promise,
Yet the same word can tear a heart as quickly as a sugar‑crunching span.

In the kitchen, the dough rises, puffs like a buzzing bee,
Colouring the air with that scent of worn‑out ovens,
And every slice, when served, delivers the sweet, silent roar
Of flavour expressed in a cascade of tiny flakes.

Outside that heat, on streets of London, “flaky” means the glitch—
The postman calls off, the train runs late, the friend fails to rise.
Reliability, once eaten, is now a setting sun,
A repeat offender slipping quietly between the cracks.

So we laugh at a flaky croissant, then sigh at a flaky miscue:
Both of us—flaky, strange, and still, strangely fond of it.