The butter melts out of habit
the toast isn’t even warm

I am telling myself to leave you
out of habit

I am hearing smoke detectors
screaming in my sleep
even though I know
that the toaster is unplugged
and the bread is sleeping
cold and safe in the fridge
the date etched into its bag
is two months away

Sitting next to you now
is taking photos
and burning the edges
with a white Bic lighter

Every kitchen utensil
that now sits rusted
in a Mid-Century America
museum exhibit
was once licked half-clean
and left to fester in the sink
while it’s owners
rolled off the edge of the couch
and littered the floor with their belts
and left socks

stopping for no burnt toast
or fire alarm

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