Sunday Morning

My coffee maker is finally making himself at home.  I’m so glad.  I was worried about him for a while there but he’s coming around.  He talks to me while he brews now.  Quietly at first and then with rising madness.  Just the way I like it.  It starts out innocent enough but soon goes rogue in all the right ways.  I love him.  I hope he’ll stick around for a few years or longer.

It’s Sunday morning and I’ve not even brushed my teeth yet.  If you were here, I would have already done that.  But you aren’t here.  And there may never be a person here to kiss in the morning.  Suddenly, that feels very tragic.  I’d like a person to kiss in the morning. 

I’ve never even kissed you in the afternoon.  I’ve never even kissed you at all. 

I’d still like to kiss you in the morning.

I cooked bacon, eggs and grits for Max just now.  We’re having a late breakfast because it’s Sunday and who gets in a hurry on Sunday?  He requested hot sauce on his eggs because he’s seen me do that.  Do you like hot sauce on your eggs?  I do sometimes.  Not always.  How do you take your eggs anyway?  I’d cook them any way you like them.  You already know that, though.

I’m having a hard time finding words lately.  I guess that’s probably a good thing since I have a tendency to say too much too soon and at all the wrong times.  If you’ve read any of this, I’m sure you must find me unhinged. 

Perhaps I am. 

Perhaps I am not.  

Perhaps your light is just so bright that I can still see it. 

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