To the Things We Dress in Brightness

Morning comes dressed as if nothing has happened,

gold light slipping through the curtains,

soft and careless, the way people speak

when they do not know where the bruises are.

There is orange juice on the table,

bright as a small sun,

champagne lifting itself in pale, nervous bubbles,

trying to make a celebration

out of what is left.

I pour the glass slowly.

It fizzes like applause in an empty room.

Somewhere, people are laughing over brunch menus,

clinking stems, calling this a day for sweetness,

for sparkle, for sitting in the easy company

of people who stayed.

I think of your hand

around a glass like this,

the way you used to tilt your head

before taking a sip, as if listening

for a secret inside it.

There are no secrets now.

Only the sharp citrus ache,

the small sting of bubbles,

the thin gold line between remembering

and pretending.

I raise the glass anyway,

because grief has its rituals too,

though no one prints them on pretty calendars.

To mornings that arrive without asking permission.

To chairs that remain empty.

To fruit cut open and still offering sweetness.

To all the things we dress in brightness

because we cannot bear to see them plain.

The mimosa glows in my hand,

cheerful little fraud, doing its best.

So am I. 🍊