we can’t get out of bed. there hasn’t been
one time where you saw the light before i did -
maybe once, when you
swore to make me eggs for breakfast, scrambled
with just a little bit of milk.
i taste your morning breath but when you kiss me
it’s always Colgate. i like your morning breath
more than any brand of toothpaste
it tastes like you
not some pharmaceutical company ******.

who still remembers the beginning anyway
my cries flooding the clinical tiles
maybe my mother held me like a
gemstone towards the new sun, but
who still remembers the beginning anyway

the eggs run different the second time you make them
you laugh, same crusty eyes, same fading patience as we cross 12 noon:
no one stays the same,
not even eggs

some days are gold and silver.
some days i tumble out of bed with yesterday’s bad hair
and you wake up late,
and the eggs are different,
and i taste your morning breath, but

when i stagger home onto the couch and hurl my dress across the room and
can’t turn on the tv when i’m starfish face down on the floor
you are always
weary,
ready
to hand the remote to me.