nothing is perfect.

we wake to a peaceful morning,

but blood cakes under my fingernails

and rose butter sticks to our scalp

massaging the memories and combing

them out, we wake to a peaceful moment

but the sparrows don’t quite

know when to start yet

licking the tips of our fingers

I am certain we have done this before,

muscle memory is perfect.

we have breakfast in silence:

two eggs with rosemary,

an unopened tarot deck,

the strongest cardamom tea ever made,

a meaningful stare from a cat,

and the way how

the dawn sun pulls

gold out of an empty cup

with their bare hands