Under soft sun you make eggs in the morning.
It's distressing me how little you look at the pan.
Wrapped up in amber, and tangents about something or other.

Perched on the kitchen counter, spatula as a microphone,
You sing a song that I wish I had written.
I try to look bemused, away, anything other than charmed.

Leaving behind some way I thought I should be,
We dance, barefoot on the tiled floor.

These eggs are burned to shit.
I've heard that gives you cancer.

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