Sitting quietly at the breakfast table, one chair empty, the cup of coffee has gone cold.
Once thought to be pleasing, lacking both remembrance and one's indifference of it and the company to make the acclaimed treat such a delicacy.
Running a finger 'round the rim of the mug, tracing circles;
Slowly,
Slower,
Stop.
A sigh.
No scrambled eggs resting warm on the plates, no fresh berries to accompany, no presence of sustenance. Presence- that's what's missing. Sustenance- emotionally dull, but physically? Perhaps... toast?
Yes, toast! The fancy kind; whole wheat with grains, nuts, and seeds; the whole loaf soft.
Oh, but how bland toast is.
No butter to smooth onto the crisp tops like the light jazz playing on an otherwise still afternoon.
Eyes shifting to the glass jar upon the table, I tap the lid distantly and wonder whether I'll buy strawberry jam or orange marmalade.
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Poems
PoesíaJust a collection of poems I wrote, most have darker themes, so here's your angst/trigger warning if you need it. I write these on a pc so if the format looks weird on your phone that's probably why.
