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  • Writer's pictureAbigail Celoria

Aubade to Wednesday Breakfasts

i see now my biggest fault is believing in


you would sit across from me, sometimes loudly, sometimes

not—as in, sometimes we would simply

sit and memorize the way the other chews,

how a hand grips

a hammered piece of metal.

you would sit across from me, and no matter that

the place changed, you made them all the same.

when you see a flower growing through a

crack in the pavement

every day, you stop wondering how

it persists, only notice it when

it begins to die.

you would sit across from me and i would

come up with new questions to ask you and

all this time it seems

i did not ask the right ones.

i suppose i should have let your edges blur

a little in my memory:

should not recall so clearly

the way your fingertips flexed to

hold a fork;

should not know so definitely

how your mouth twitched in a smile when i said

something funny between bites;

should not love so deeply

that i was the only person in the world

you wanted to eat breakfast with

week after week,

for all eternity.

this morning i eat breakfast alone,

and i catch myself leaning

forward as if you

were across the table. sun streams

through the window and seems to

pool around the space where you

should be.

i am sorry i looked too closely and yet not

closely enough.

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