Art Will Survive, Artists Won't

10. fika

Morning comes in from the east,
The amber wash of the sun gently nudging you out of bed.
Squinting in the bright sunlight you were so unprepared for,
You take a moment to breathe
The fresh air that coasts in from your open window.
The smell of coffee subtly coaxes you down the steps,
The worn-in wooden stairs creaking.
To accompany the coffee scent,
A fragrance of sweetness blankets the kitchen.
A fruit of some kind, strawberries?
Under the coffee, it is impossible to tell.
Slow, still weighed by tiredness, you walk to the stove.
The coffee pot is sitting there, steaming.
Who had made it for you?
A roommate, a relative, a lover?
The memory is yellowed at the edges,
It is too old to remember who
Had prepared it so lovingly for you.
Your favorite mug is light green and chipped on one side.
Your hand pours the coffee, and you sip.
It is bitter, but it is perfect.
A glass plate lies on the kitchen table.
Upon it is a pastry, filled with fruit.
Strawberry? The lingering taste of coffee
Makes it impossible to tell.
The dough is flaky, and sweet when you sink your teeth into it.
You sit by yourself on a kitchen stool,
But you are far from alone.
You don't remember who prepared your breakfast,
But still their ghost sits with you while you eat.