Sounds of birds screeching,
The mug in my kitchen overflowing with coffee, spilling over the edges.
The only sounds heard by the eggs crackling on the pan,
Infectious joy spreading like a virus all around the neighborhood.
Another meal that could’ve been prepared by your delicate hands,
Garnished with your love; poured with appreciation as I devour it whole.
But it is my hands that hurt, that ruin.
The sour taste attacks my tastebuds, and claws through my heart,
As I experience another morning without you,
Mourning you.