Morning

I wake.

It's a quarter before the alarm
breaks fitful sleep.

I stretch-
then remember that
I'm not alone here.

Quietly
softly
I wriggle from tether
and creep to the bathroom...

this floor creaks.

I laid it all out there
the blubber
the penchant for
unmatched socks-
the scars
the lined up vials on the counter...

the space mask
the unwashed dishes
the magazines under the chair...

the book was found and unmentioned even.

I stood with arms crossed-defiant
door slightly ajar-waiting

and yet...

I declined to talk about it-
tired of talk-
of introspection-

so instead we laughed
and ate the ice cream I made
and listened to that awful crackle
his shoulder makes when he turns it just so--

and the light turned to dark
and the dark turned to light
and I remembered all the things I thought I forgot...

and the note was scribbled on a scrap of paper
and I went out into the morning without a thought
of....

Fig

I can smell the fig before I even touch it.

A dusky purple blue.

Not too soft.

Full of fertile seed.

I am pleased and he knows so.

I split it into quarters so we can share.

He’s never had one before.

He wants praise.

I don’t want to talk while I eat it.

I suspect the offering.

Emulsification

I should know better, than to pour the melted butter to the cream-
though through trickery
I have made them change their state...

the cream- like butter was-
is now cold cold and unyielding,
the butter as cream,
warm and wanting-

I should know better....

Yes it is possible
to make these two unlikes meet--
mix

and with the right amount of variables
create beauty.

smoothness
perfection...

but it is oh so brief
and the process
it tires you-

all the stirring-
agitation.

It needs so much attention.

And the cream can only tame the butter for so long-
butter always pulls away-

and is true to its original form.