Morning Coffee

I waited to see your name on my phone screen,
your eyes through my front windows,
your curls on my pillow.

I wake to the telltale dark question marks
on the white pillowcase,
and yesterday's t-shirt
missing from where I dropped it on the floor last night.
Bitter coffee greets my nose
as I unwrap myself from the sheets.

When I find you in the kitchen,
you're emptying the coffee grinder I bought
because you can't start your day without it.
You're in my shirt in my home
with your hair flattened on one side
from sleeping the whole night
with your face tilted towards mine.

I know in a moment you will turn
and request the eggs that always
end up a little too runny,
slightly burnt toast softened
in the milky runoff.
I'll offer pancakes instead, but you'll insist
because this is our ritual
completed with coffee and morning breath,
and we are too content to tempt fate
with a change.

Z. Unger Bell has been writing poetry ever since they got bored during a rainstorm in 7th-grade math and accidentally wrote a poem about frogs. When they're not writing or musing upon amphibious friends, they can be found playing music, knitting while listening to podcasts, or wandering around libraries.