Burnt Toast

Awoken to sugarbirds stirring outside my window,

I run down the stairs and into the kitchen.

Soft soles making a pitter patter against the cold tile floor.

I sit at the dining table, rubbing my eyes.

Burnt toast and butter with a mug of Milo is neatly arranged.

Each bite just as sweet as your humming.

Inconsequential to you, refreshing to me.

Bathing in that silver tub,

bubbles to my chin.

My hair like honey basking in the sunlight.

Your garden surrounds me.

The sweet scent of sugar apple and mango engulfs my senses.

I giggled,

Mom smiled.

It’s not like that anymore.

Now I sit at a dining table, watching you eat.

Your skin like silk draping over your bones. 

Your eyes empty, your hums silenced.

You’re in an unfamiliar place, 

with people who look just like you.

You know my face,

not my name.

My voice,

not its owner.

I know you love me.

You just can’t say it.

We miss your toast.

We miss your hums.

I watch mom fall apart.

I watch her younger self cling to you as you slip away.

I watch as you lose your voice.

I hate that all I can do is watch.