Every morning with you is a slow motion scene with a real time audio track. You rise slowly, hardly breathing before your first stretch. And every breakfast is a quiet one; you're barely aware and awake until noon. Apart from the clinking of our spoons in our bowls, the radio hums and the cars in the parking lot start up for the day's journey. We're together until we're apart on this weekday morning. My coffees gotten low and there's still sleep in your eyes. Making an effort to spend time with you before we go all day our seperate ways, but eight am conversations can't be forced and eggs are hard to swallow when they're cold. We force our morning routine with the hopes of creating structure for our lives together. When will we realize that we're really pushing each other apart?
Five years back and it was effortless. I consult the books, my old journals that is. June the fifth we made waffles for dinner because we missed breakfast that day. August the twentieth we made a picnic, rising early to eat with the sun. January the third we made pancakes in the shapes of characters with fruit for facial features. These times weren't planned nor scheduled as a routine, instead they just happened. Whatever happened to things just happening?