You usually make breakfast,
But this morning you were in bed.
To find your arms around me,
On your shoulder lies my head.
You normally don't use perfume,
So I breathe in the human smell,
Your arms around me get tighter,
Longing, is what our actions yell.
I nuzzle my face to your collarbones,
Your face buried in my hair.
I pulled your ear and said,
"Make breakfast, I'm hungry.
We can just share."
But you laughed as you bit my ear,
"But I'm already having it.
You're my breakfast in bed."

My tears do flow
right into the stir fry
on the stove
onto the towels
as I fold laundry
behind the smile
as I place a bandage
on my little one's cut knee
I hug my children
They cannot see those salty droplets
as I think of
the exact awakening
that I am on the edge
of receiving
and now
that the chambers of your heart
take shape before
my very own
as the shy indigo of your retinas
burns its memory in my  
pair of ocean blues
and how, today,
I wanted to melt right
into the ripe,
soft knowledge
of your
smile