Kneading Bread

Kneading Bread

Coffee. Day old. 

You pour it out.  You know better than to give me day old coffee.

The sheets are fresh. Dry. Lovely. Full of me.  

The smell of fresh brewing coffee wakes me up.  No.  Actually, it was you. When you grabbed my toes. My ugly toes. You touch them all the same.  And you wake me all the same.  

I had never known someone more spring in the morning. And then I met you.

Coffee.  Day old.

I drink it.  Cold.  I know there is no more coffee to brew.

The sheets are used. Old. Soiled. Full of me.

The smell of overly-ripe fruit and honey sends me to bed.  No.  Actually, it was you.  When you used to grab my toes.  My ugly toes.  You don’t touch them anymore.  I go to bed all the same.

I had never known someone who’s absence sent me to bed so quickly. And then I met you.

Coffee. Day old.

I warm it up. Not bad. I’m going to make this cup last.

The sheets are in the washer. Being cleaned. Being softened.  Full of water.

The smell of yeast and flour calls me to the kitchen.  No.  Actually, it was me.  I stood in the kitchen, standing on my ugly toes.  I use them for balance.  And I knead bread on my two feet all the same.

I had never known how to bake bread.  And then I learned. Look at me now, Honeybear.

May I Write You a Postcard?

May I Write You a Postcard?

The Unbreakable Glass

The Unbreakable Glass