i make breakfast for two,
fried eggs with unbroken yolks this time,
coffee, toast with butter and apricot jam,
a mango that i cut perfectly in half
and quarter like my mother used to
when i was a child

i’ll take the candles, keys, cat treats
off the top of my rickety dining table
and drag it into the middle of my kitchen,
pull two chairs out from between
the fridge and overflowing coat rack

maybe sheepishly admit that i tend
to eat my meals at the desk in
my bedroom, makes me feel less
alone with music in the background

and you’re really there this time,
sitting across from me, knees almost
brushing under the table,
because you picked up the phone,
made the drive,
hopped more than one bus

let me love you in this way,
through nourishment and a
home cooked meal

let me gift you my smile,
a deep belly laugh,
and leftovers for later that night
when some of that familiar darkness
starts to creep back in

let me love you in this way,
and maybe you’ll stay longer
next time, and feel a little
lighter when you go