breakfast

And he refilled his coffee, quietly beautiful beyond the crystal rock candle holder, peppermint smile; even the adolescent pre-teens with cokes and cartoon knapsacks and string-bean legs could not ruin this morning moment. Over the conjoining gazes, there lived a lone kiwi splash of green on the plate palette, as the lovers spoke in the tongue of Southern forest regions where canopies sheltered the flourishing foliage beds like queens protected by stone air castles.
"I want to kiss you again," he whispered across his second cup, crumbs clinging to his favorite sweater sleeves lined with static along the casually fathomless talk of authentic Spanish cooking, Mediterranean lifestyle cravings. His coffee spilled as he sheepishly stumbled over his concession and thanked her absentmindedly but meaningfully for breakfast, gratitude slipping from his profuse, scaffolded lips.

And they became symmetrical strawberries. Split perfectly down the middle, two equal portioned parts of a ripe, delectable whole. Fiddling, he was quite simply breathtaking, and there was talk of Franz Kafpka: breakfast of champions, hungover life of the Gods. There are gourmet cheeses, fresh fruit, chocolate croissants, and fresh baguettes; across the small, subtly lit room, the old woman coughs, a dry and wheezing sound, as he inquires the restaurant owners about the coffee...something about the earthy-ness of Fredricksburg origin.
And then there was Mexico. "I have to show you that place."

And she believed him.

The dark, rich Mexican coffee. Thick, sweet bread fresh and steaming in the windows of the street bakeries, fish tacos and virginal bananas. The mention of chorizo and barbacoa cooked in a plow disc, with iced chileda to wash down with, made saliva gather in her mouth regardless of her vegetarianism.

It's all about the separation of flavors. Being inside of one another. And she could see her reflection, echoed back effortlessly.
He was growing passionate about Tibetan highlanders, the practices of women marrying families of brothers...and she was studying his pineapple-brie smudged fingertips intently, wondering if it would be considered an appropriate response to suck the remnants off. Probably not. But when he worked himself up and his storm blew in,when the vehenemence of his animation beset him, she couldn't help but humor the stumble of her composure. He licked them, catching her eye. That smile. He. Him.


"Did you hear about what the Pope said?"

One statement.
Cleaning the crumbs.

The Catholic Church was tooting their own horn and she felt the relishing of glory as a lightbulb fizzled on in his top right brain quadrant and he text messaged his editor about the next article he would write. She could sense it turning over in his words, passion singing and slightly smug as he deserved to be.

Later she would long for the Tibetan Book of the Dead, hearing the Munich monks chanting once more in the spinning carousel of her head, haunting her beautifully. He would take notice and mental note it, plotting the next novel he would buy her, small gesture of affection. He had packed up all his things, ready to send off, live a monastic life, and it was flooding his eyes as he admitted this, holding her hands across the table. He loved her enough to be her fellow conundrum, watching her closely from the other side, the sway of her rainbow earrings, lips tumbling smiles at her sadistic curiosity and mention of past pain inflictions.

The Universe works in the most mysterious of ways, sabotaging her sabotage. It would not let anything ruin these slow Sunday mornings,
the sunlight newly glowing in their eyes as they descend ever deeper into the world,
completing circles of soul.
Welcome home.








There exists a transition from religious to spiritual,
it is a crowning point, a spark plug, exigency,
high noon.

Stillness speaks.
"When you stop trying to define it, you can actually be it."

All the in between,
the most powerful of joys, ecstasy,
are not meant to be spoken about aloud or described accurately (and yet still, the pen is impossible to set down sometimes).
And maybe being a good writer is to understand this.