i take my time with the sun

ambling from my bed, to the couch,

to the kitchen, in sherpa slippers

whose rubber soles slide 

against phony hardwood floors

 

scraping aged espresso grounds into the trash

where i’ll never think of them again

until the rotting scent reminds me

that nothing is ever truly gone

but the foul smell is temporary

 

shot glass clinks against the metal tray

along with the whir 

of water becoming steam

we don’t have milk…or syrup. damn. 

add it to the list of things i’m out of:

 

​- patience

he asked me what i feared, and

without blinking, i said permanence.

woahhhh, that’s deep.

is it deep, or is it just something 

you’ve never thought about?

​

- whole milk 

frothing oat milk with incredible disdain, 

i pour out the translucent concoction 

into a bubbling dark roast,

making my mug lukewarm because

i don’t actually know how to make a latte

 

maybe permanence is not my fear

because i know that if every day

starts like this one, then i would be

utterly satisfied, with the right person

and whole milk by my side

​

​- contentment

maybe i fear permanently 

being with him. because he

cannot memorize lyrics to any song

and does not take photos of anything.

i just never look back at them.

 

if he fist-bumped me in the arcade,

would he fist-bump me after intimacy?

when he stumbles into my kitchen,

how else will he continue to interrupt

my methodical morning?

 

i’m tired of being forced to use

gritty, alternative milks against my will

while knowing that the real thing

would allow mornings to make sense

in the way nothing else could,

 

so i attempt to face my temporary

routine with as much fractured grace

as i can muster, and strain not to

fill my void of permanence with 

lackluster, awkward knuckle taps

- vanilla 

maybe if i drown my drink in sweet,

it will be more palatable.