“How do you like your eggs?”

“I love them all, can’t decide. But poached is difficult to cook.”

“I’ll do it, it’s simple,” you replied. 

What you don’t know, is that I was mesmerized. What you don’t know, is that I was making a mental note of this morning, the morning you cooked me something. You knew I loved breakfast. 

I ate the eggs, but watched you instead. I didn’t want to look at my plate, afraid of missing the moment, of watching you watch me. It was as though this was my first breakfast, first taste of eggs. I could say I miss breakfast with you, but I would be lying. I miss knowing you’ll be the first word of the day, the first breath, the first breakfast, and marking another day knowing you woke up. Still alive, still here. 

I don’t eat breakfast most of the time anymore and there is a ghost, with a pair of hands, making me a sandwich, insisting I take it with me. 

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