I returned to my city and was reunited with my beloved. We went to the zoo. We drank stolen Manhattans. And then, when the night was almost over, I bought an Alfajoreo from the corner kiosk. All I wanted that day was an Alfajoreo. The culinary unity of my two cultures, Overly sweet to my palate, doubly familiar, completely new. The alfajoreo is perfection. Three layers of flaky chocolate cookie, two thin layers of sugary oreo filling, The kind I used to scrape off with my teeth. I devoured my alfajoreo. By the end of the night it was all over my face. I was home. Alone after another perfect date. Dates were always perfect with my beloved. And I always went home, kiss-less and alone. Alfajoreo kissed me sloppily. It left its mark in chocolate stains on my lips and an extra tightness in my jeans. My beloved had never been in my jeans. He arrived on time to my birthday party Bottle of champagne in hand A handwritten note addressed to me and hidden in the bottom of the bag: An alfajoreo. The alfajoreo is the All-American in Argentina. Just like my beloved. Alfajoreo is reliable, inventive yet simple. A classic. As is my beloved. The alfajoreo is deliciously sweet, sugary and irresistible. Indeed all who meet are delightfully taken by the perfect dessert. I had been taken by the sweet, genuine smile of my beloved. To me he was irresistible. My human chocolate. Like the alfajoreo, moments with him always ended too soon. Leaving me craving one more bite A bit more substance. Temporary satisfaction followed by a harsh reality of the sugar crash. What is more pathetic? Writing a poem about a cookie, Or hopelessly loving a gay man?