The sun barely rises,
casting a soft glow across the table,
the air thick with the scent of syrup,
a warm, comforting embrace.
On my plate, the pancakes—
fluffy, golden stacks,
like little clouds kissed by the earth,
drizzled with dark, rich chocolate,
a bittersweet sweetness
clinging to the edges like memories.
Whipped cream swirls like soft cotton,
cascading in graceful heaps,
while strawberries, red as a fleeting sunset,
sit nestled atop like the last bloom
before winter’s breath.
A sip of hot chocolate,
dark and creamy,
curling steam rising like the breath of life,
whipped cream crowned with syrup,
a spoonful of warmth
that holds the promise of comfort,
a taste of home in every drop.
Each bite is a surrender,
the world softening,
blurring, fading with every chew.
The sweetness, the richness,
mingling with the faintest hint of finality—
my last meal, my last taste
of earth’s tender gifts.
As I eat, I watch the room,
the last sunrise casting long shadows,
its golden light touching things
that once held so much meaning—
a chair, a book, a photograph.
And I wonder if this moment,
this simple breakfast,
will be the last I ever know,
and if it’s enough
to carry me through
the final breath.
