Writers Jam

i have a memory from the future.
it begins with a stray curl across my face.
i kiss her forehead,
she shifts closer,
but i have to get up
sundays belong to breakfast.

we never call it a ritual,
but it is one.
she bargains for five more minutes
while i move through the kitchen.
flowers wait on the counter
her favourite are always
whatever i bring.

today it’s shakshouka,
with filter coffee of course.
she hates milk,
but never in coffee.

we eat, sip,
and pass a marlb red between us.
she clears the dishes,
then folds herself into my lap,
wordless,
her eyes asking me
to put the cigarette to her lips.
i do,
because how could i deny
this kuttu anything at all?

our pets stumble in.
she greets them from my lap,
sunlight spilling over her face.
i put out the cigarette,
just to look at her
the way she belongs to morning,
the way morning belongs to her.

i used to wonder,
who will come into my kitchen and be hungry for me?
now i know.