You caught the sunrise today,
barefoot on the dewy grass,
the world holding its breath
as the sky turned soft and gold.

A bird sang—just one at first,
then another, then a chorus—
and you laughed because it felt
like they were singing for you.

The air smelled like beginnings,
like something had shifted
while you were asleep,
and you didn’t even mind the chill.

For a moment, it was enough—
just you and the morning,
and the thought that maybe
everything would be okay.

Eggs are weird,
but I eat them anyway.
Toast gets burnt,
and I call it flavor.

The milk’s expired,
but not too expired.
Coffee’s bitter,
but so am I.

Breakfast is simple,
until it’s not.
Sometimes,
it’s the best part of the day.