Brunch

I slid out of bed in the early morning,
From under twisted sheets
And twisted actions.
And I made him breakfast.
I never liked pancakes but I made them for him.
Sometimes, you give up a little when you love someone
Pancakes were minor tribute
To how I had been feeling.

He always came in the night
In shadow
With rain.
Like something out of
A dreamscape,
Or maybe a nightmare.
I held him
Close
Told him
I loved him
Without ever saying the words,
But with screaming sighs and
Crying climaxes.
And with breakfast
In the early mornings.

I knew there were other women.
I knew there were other angels
Other princesses
Other little darlings.
But I knew I'd be there
When they couldn't.
When they wouldn't.
When they ceased to be useful.

For as much as he loved me,
He still couldn't love me the way
I loved him.
Often I would stand on the sidelines.
Waiting for night.
Waiting for breakfast.
Waiting for him to find the little pieces of himself that he kept buried
After he burned the treasure map.

I remember when the nights came without him.
I wept
Knowing I didn't save him.
Knowing I failed
Knowing I could never trust him
Maybe even love him
The same again.

I knew these things.
But I always remembered
Breakfast.