breakfast.

i watched as they poured the batter
both of them looking eagerly on
as if there were a child
being born in that pan
they knew the exact moment to drop the berries
onto that creamy white oval

i watched from the doorway

but i wanted to eat what they have
i wanted the sticky maple love they share

i want to tell you about these pancakes
i want to tell you about the perfectness of them
i want to tell you in as few words as i can
and i want you to get it

but you are always talking about the history of us
you say,
we can not make pancakes together, not on a sunday morning,
we have too much history
but we have no history
no one has diligently written down the details of us
no one has questioned,
no one will be reading the story of our love in high school
history classes decades from now
you and i,
we do not matter enough to make history together

we are more like a fox news report at 2 in the morning
the only viewers passed out and farting

history
you throw the word around like a toy
like something easily acquired

i have no history with you

maybe years down the line when we are fatter and uglier
maybe then

when we can recall the time we burnt a chair in the road
when we can laugh about drinking sangria
and almost killing ourselves on the drive home

when i can explain the simple fact of a pancake
and you can shut up long enough to understand