A Mile of Toast

I will sit on your laptop at the worst possible time. I will bring you a dead bird and expect applause.

The kettle hisses its slow complaint— ssssssss— like a secret it's been holding since last night.

There is a jacket on my chair that doesn't belong to me, and this is how you know

Saturday starts with silence, slow and soft, sheets still warm from sleeping in.

I didn't know I was looking until I found you—the way you don't know you're cold until someone hands you a blanket.

You are not the poem I set out to write. You are the poem that wrote itself—sideways, surprising, with terrible spelling and the most honest last line.