It was a romantic dream you had
that we'd wake up to birdsong together,
but you turned them into your sirens
and sung your battle cry from the shower
as I prepared for you to finish up
and start our breakfast warfare.
With a mock shooting action you
presented soldiers and pretended to
throw eggs like grenades, so it made
sense you told me they were your speciality.
I would choose the non violent option,
obviously, but always ended up wincing
into my coffee that you made, too strong
so that I'd bruise my lips as I drank.
A 'labour of love' you called it, trying
try to trade a kiss for morning vitamins
or to soothe the bruises on my mouth.
I'd fend you off with a teaspoon, drop
sugar cubes in my cup like bombs.
I could only smile your way if I held
a croissant upside down over my mouth,
but you always had a smile because
you loved our breakfast warfare.