The smoke alarm blaring means that I am cooking
bacon and hashbrowns — your favorite breakfast.
I have scorched it beyond return,
and the acrid scent of charred bacon now crowds the kitchen air,
but it’s what I have to give,
and I know that you’ll be happy anyway.

Through the arch that connects our bedroom to the kitchen,
I can see the plaid bed sheets messily tangled with your long legs.
Your arm is draped over the side of our bed
as the cat rubs his face against your sleeping fingertips,
and your back rises and falls with every gentle breath you take.

Our home is illuminated by sunlight that spills
through half-cracked windows,
and breakfast that chars in half-clean pans,
and glances exchanged through half-opened doors.

So, for now, let’s let summer be savored and breakfast be burnt
in this small home of ours
where nothing else matters.