Banana Pancake



         




I know what love looks like at 6:13 in the morning.


It’s sunlight slipping through the cracks of red curtains, landing soft on your cheek, and the way your arms pull me in tighter like you’re afraid the dream will end if you let go. I never needed an alarm clock after that..not when your chest rising and falling was louder than any ring tone in the world.


I close the curtains so you can sleep a little longer.

I whisper, “Good morning,” but only loud enough for the walls to know.


You hold my hand while I slip into my shirt, like you can’t trust the air to keep me close.

And I smile, because I like being missed even in my own kitchen.


I walk in slow, the floor cold but the thought of making you pancakes warmer than fire. Banana ones..the ones you don’t even like. And coffee you won’t drink. But I make them anyway, because love isn’t about taste, it’s about offering. About effort. About showing up again and again in small, ordinary ways.


You wake up with sleepy eyes and call me beautiful, and I pretend I don’t melt every single time.

I bring breakfast to bed. 

I cut the piece and let you have the first bite while we listen to Jack Johnson and I wonder if mornings are ever this kind to other people.


You don’t want to freshen up. You want to hold me.

Of course you do. I would too. But I drag you to the bathroom anyway, both of us laughing, and then you press me against the sink and kiss me like we’re late to something.

But there’s nowhere else I want to be.


I go back, tuck the sheets, fix the pillows.

The bed looks less messy, but my heart? A little more undone.


It sounds so beautiful, doesn’t it?


It feel's even more beautiful inside me.

Like a movie that never ends. Like a Sunday you never have to say goodbye to.

Like something that happened.


But it didn’t.


Not yet.

Not outside these words.


Because the truth is..I didn’t wake up in your arms.

I didn’t make those pancakes.

You didn’t kiss me in the bathroom.

Not because you didn’t want to.

 But because this is just my mind.

 My ink. 

My want.

My dream.


I’m just a writer.


And this?

This is the life I’ve lived a hundred times… only with my eyes closed.


But maybe..

Someday, love,

When you wake up and call me beautiful for real,

I won’t need to write it anymore.

I’ll just live it.



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