Perhaps I push the covers off. Too heavy. Perhaps I slide my feet
into the slippers a former lover gave me. I cannot not think
about her for a moment. Perhaps I open the container
and smell dark roast beans. Perhaps I grind them.
Water boiling already. Pour over.
Perhaps, the ritual complete, I sit at my desk.
Perhaps I message my Beloved and my Princess.
Perhaps the birds are singing the same songs
they have sung before memory.
Perhaps there is good work for me to do today
and I will not accidentally harm my hands with tools.
Perhaps my heart will not shrink. Steam rises.
Perhaps I have been sitting here always,
not present in this moment, not holding this coffeecup,
not breathing, not sliding into my skin,
until the birdsong merges into my hand and the steam
and the sharp, bitter liquid in my mouth,
until perhaps ends and I am now.