I crack farm eggs over the skillet this morning,
but my body wants to return to you in bed. I
need to inhale the scent of me all over you,
so I can keep this memory for fall. Everything
dies in the fall. Some things begin and end all
at once. It’s always in the fall. The eggs bubble
at the edges, but I only have the stomach for
you on my lips. New beginnings. And this.