halves of a whole
It’s the morning when your parentals manage to still the cool outside the warmth of your covers. It is the sound of crushed berries eventually turned into jam, rippling through the air like a reverb. It is the invisible flume coaxing you to a table of a country loaf toasted light, like the steps of those same parentals exiting your room well before you’ve hit the REM of sleep. It is butter almost completely melted, kissing more than a knifes worth of spread over twin pieces before touching your bottom lip.
It is toast. And one of the most memorable I’ve had.