today, you chose to skip breakfast
You were still snoring in your sleep when the harsh morning light stabbed my eyes awake. I shifted uncomfortably under the tangled sheets while my body was sore. Now here at the kitchen comes the fear of what to eat for breakfast. Look, I don’t really know that much, it’s only been three short weeks since you slipped into my bed with the purpose of chasing away the loneliness of my long nights. But my nights of sleep are still not at ease. You didn’t make that much of a difference — or you still haven’t made that much of a difference. Maybe your presence hadn’t quite calmed the storm within me yet.
Breakfast turned into a whole thing. Pancakes seemed like the safest bet. The one that you cook when you really don’t know if they’re allergic to whatever. Sorry I couldn’t make you a toast. Toast felt too risky — what if you like yours soft and squishy, and I burnt it to a crisp? I barely knew you. Do you like a sunny side up and bacon for breakfast? Would it overwhelm you if I asked? Asking felt like a big leap for three weeks in. Maybe I’d save the question for the next time.
The butter sizzled merrily on the pan, melting over the perfect circle pancake I’d managed to create. It sat proudly next to its misshapen cousin, sporting a few crispy, charred edges. Sorry for my slightly shaky morning hands. Just then, you shuffled out of the bedroom, throwing your jacket on with ease. A quick peck on the cheek and a mumbled, “see you tomorrow night,” was all I got before you were out the door in a rush. The silence descended, punctuated only by the clinking of your untouched plate hitting the counter beside mine. Now I am left with two plates of pancakes in front of me, one plate is well polished while my plate is chipped on the edges.
Today, you chose to skip breakfast.
The 14th of December arrived cloaked in swirling snowflakes that clung to my hair and shoulders. “Tomorrow night” had come surprisingly fast, and I found myself rushing to get ready. Dressed up, but for whom? As we walked, a shiver escaped me and I told you I am cold. Did I widen my arms subconsciously, hoping you’d close the gap? You did, the perfect gentleman. Your padded jacket went on me first. Hot packs, a thoughtful gesture, found their way into my pockets. My body, finally, felt the warmth. Did my heart feel the cold even through the layers? Kind and considerate, your touch couldn’t quite reach the place that needed it most.
Today, you chose to skip my hug.
This love’s still a newborn, barely out of its milk teeth. So why does it bite? It shouldn’t be snapping yet. We haven’t built our language yet, I am just deciphering a message I don’t quite understand. Maybe love, like a child, goes through growing pains. But these growing pains feel more like sharp teeth, nipping at the edges of my comfort. Am I just a placeholder until something permanent comes along? When will this love learn to walk? Would it ever get to say its first words? Or am I already at your disposal?
