It was a Monday kind of love. One that ran on groggy morning greetings and burnt coffee, on blankets pulled too much on one side and lingering touches that blurred the lines between friends and lovers.
The question hangs in the air as the eggs start to sizzle.
"Do you think of me as much as I think of you?"
And behind the counter tops and every laughter from a completed cereal box puzzle, we found our answers in the words left unsaid.
YOU ARE READING
confessions
PoetryA series of word vomit including, but not limited to, poetry, excerpts, open letters and one-shots. All written within a span of a year.
