I live for the slow mornings,
when the sunlight is soft enough
to slip through the curtains
without waking me fully.
I live for the sound of water boiling,
the clink of a teaspoon against a mug,
the steam curling into the air
like it has nowhere else to be.
I live for oversized sweaters,
pages of books I’ve already read,
and the way sunlight lingers on my skin,
as if it knows the warmth I've been missing.
I live for conversations
that wander without maps,
laughter that sneaks up on me,
and music that feels like home.

when the sunlight is soft enough
to slip through the curtains
without waking me fully.
I live for the sound of water boiling,
the clink of a teaspoon against a mug,
the steam curling into the air
like it has nowhere else to be.
I live for oversized sweaters,
pages of books I’ve already read,
and the way sunlight lingers on my skin,
as if it knows the warmth I've been missing.
I live for conversations
that wander without maps,
laughter that sneaks up on me,
and music that feels like home.
