i wake up around 5ish in the morning, draw the curtains open but i won’t open the windows cause it’s chilly outside and you don’t like it cold in the mornings. i wear your t-shirt and go to the kitchen to make you some pancakes. there’s no milk. i hear your footsteps on the wooden floor, you’re walking towards the kitchen. i’m brewing green tea. you always say you don’t “hate” green tea cause hate is such a strong word, but you’re “reluctant” to drinking that bitter grassy liquid first thing in the morning therefore i brew it with rose petals and chamomile. my hands shake and the hot tea spills over the brim of the cup. right when i turn around to tell you to go buy two boxes of milk from the grocery store down the street, you fold me in your arms and won’t even let me begin. you smell like cinnamon, it’s probably the carrot cake that we made last night. you start humming our song, the one that was playing on the radio in that cafe when we first met. we start slowly dancing to it in the kitchen. “my pain fits in the palm of your freezing hand” and you hold my hands tighter.
