“You are making breakfast
in every dream that I have
of you. You are in the kitchen, your
soft middle pressed up against
the cold marble countertops
like a vision too beautiful for
the magazines, sprinkling
dark chocolate chips over
pancakes. I think for a brief second that
I am dreaming inside of my dream,
that I had to make you up twice, just to get it right.
You, brushing your dark hair out
of your face, smearing batter
across your cheeks. You have come and made my dreams smaller, narrower.
Filled them with sugar and your body humming in the same room as mine. I dream, now, of a normal life with you.
A life where breakfast lasts until the sun goes down, until I have finished gazing at you from across
the table, flour dried to your forehead
like a kiss.”
