SpaghettiOs In The Morning

The kitchen feels foreign
its silence louder than any argument
we ever had
No sizzling bacon
no toast burning in the rush
Just me
and a can I found in the back of the cabinet

I turn the opener
the lid giving way with a sharp metallic edge
The smell is familiar
a relic of time before grown up meals
and grocery lists written together

I dump its contents into a bowl
let the microwave do its thing in its beautiful mechanical comfort
The table is too big now
her chair still pushed back
like she may walk in at any moment

My spoon circles lazily through the sauce
Each bite tastes like survival
like the beginning of something I didn't choose
but have to live

SpaghettiOs in the morning
not a meal
but a moment where I remind myself I'm still here