Thoughts over Breakfast

Our fingers touch.

Don’t breath too deep.

It passes off as an accidental brush. Petty. Insignificant. But you look at me with such intensity that I have to ask: why?

Don’t think all day.

Because of course it’s not me you think of. It’s not me you kiss, you push against the wall. It’s not me you sing to, you fight with, not in that sense anyway.

Your fucking bedsprings don’t dedicate their evening ballads to me.

Then your answer comes: you want me to pass the milk. Of course, it makes sense now. I pass the milk carton.

Our fingers touch.

Don’t.