Sunday Breakfast

lines: Bryce Albertson

In a corner booth, we sit

side by side,

thighs touching,

both glancing nervously

toward a manic buzzing trapped

between the seat and window,

fearful

of the wasp that brings us closer

unknowingly

for the last time

before the waitress kills it

as our way of showing thanks

for this gift of one last perfect,

imperfect moment

to savor together

in disquieted delight.

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