you said, “let’s make pancakes.”
and i said sure,
like i always do when i’m not sure
what else to say.
flour dusts the air,
tiny ghosts of what we were yesterday.
the bowl’s too small,
but so are we,
so maybe that’s fair.
eggshells crack like secrets.
we pretend not to notice.
you stir too long.
i stir too soft.
love burns if you look away too often.
and maybe that’s what this is.
half-cooked affection.
a sticky situation.
you drizzle syrup like confession,
slow and deliberate;
golden, heavy,
a little too sweet,
a little too late.
we talk about nothing.
we talk about everything.
you laugh,
and the sound lands like butter melting,
sliding off the edge of the pan,
gone before it sizzles.
i flip one.
it tears.
you say, “it’s fine.”
but i see it in your eyes.
you liked it better whole.
you say, “we’re messy.”
i say, “we’re breakfast.”
you don’t laugh this time.
the silence hums like the stovetop,
low, constant,
dangerous if left on too long.
syrup pools between the plates,
like spilled apologies,
too thick to clean.
you dip your fork in,
taste it,
and say, “still good.”
still good.
and maybe that’s us.
pancakes gone cold,
edges crisp with all the things we didn’t say,
but still somehow soft in the middle.
i watch you take another bite.
i want to ask if you mean it.
but the fork scrapes
and the moment is gone.
and love,
like syrup,
sticks to everything
it touches.
Nov 11, 2025
Nov 11, 2025 at 5:00 PM UTC
i pull a taboo card from the deck.
the word is closure.
i can’t say “end,”
i can’t say “peace,”
i can’t say “you.”
guess I lose again.
Nov 3, 2025
Nov 3, 2025 at 3:33 PM UTC