Routine (In Memory Of Continued)

That odd auburn tarnish on the stovetop when no one's awake and it's strange of all the things the routine of a kitchen with its sharp ends and dulled expectations. I never wanted for more than a place where exhaustion makes sense. To reduce a bone broth from scratch that is so sure of itself. Taking our turns at toothpicks to scrape at a sore and confess every wrong and learning how not to slam a door. To day-old omelets and finger painting and wadded-up fortune cookie wrappers and would you like to see my room? When was the last time you washed your sheets? Who does this belong to? To fake orchids and souvenir chopsticks and craving something handmade to dusty window sills and shedding hair and sharing headaches to sweaty candles and damp pillows and upstairs neighbors to broken glasses and mismatched socks. Learning not to speak I follow your fingers kneading my back. Breaking bread and early to bed. 

More than love I wish to be warm, to reach a place where language fails. To welcome a fever like a hug from a stranger or a cup of tea past the morning but before light, where biting your own tongue is easier. Anything to stave off the cold. To forget all the things that feel like steam rising in my throat and find ease in the burden, to just sweat it all out.