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Waking at dawn, the glaze of morning’s light
Clings to his dough, a shell of brittle sweetness.
Born round, a circle spun of absence,
He fills the day with empty, aching goals,
A rolling want for purpose where his center
Holds only air, a void too vast to sate.

Each morning breaks the same:
The world insists its bitter truths—
A boy is more than dough, but not much more.
"Dream, they said," he mutters, as the fryer
Scorches hope into a brittle crust.
To roll, to leap, to love—impossible,
For he is made to sit, to serve,
A pastry parable on porcelain plates.

Relief arrives one sticky twilight:
Powdered sugar clouds, the rush of frosting,
A fleeting mercy on his endless ache.
They hush the voice that whispers,
"You will stale. You will crack.
No filling waits inside you."
For once, he feels whole—
Or whole enough.

Then Eclair, soft and sleek, her cocoa gaze
Dripping promise, her smile a candied blade.
She takes him in her sugar-dusted arms,
Her words like caramel: sweet, viscous lies.
She swirls his pain into her melting core,
A thief of sprinkles, a lover’s hollow void.

He knows her game but stays;
A donut cannot live alone.

When the glaze dulls and sprinkles scatter,
And Eclair is gone, chasing newer highs,
He sees the truth in her betrayal’s glare:
To be devoured is to be loved,
To vanish into the mouths of others,
A fleeting purpose, but a purpose still.

So Donut Boy prepares his final act:
A shimmer of vanilla dip,
A constellation of rainbow sprinkles,
A plate, clean and white as redemption.
He waits in the quiet kitchen’s glow,
A prayer that teeth will find his pain delicious,
That his void will finally close,
And leave the world full.

The morning comes, and with it, the bite.