Breakfast Poeming

Ingredients:

.Cherry belladonna salad.
.Black hyacinth juice.
.No coffee, no coffee.
.Vanilla gunpowder.
.Happiness staying forever.

I place the cherry belladonna on the plate like a warning.
The salad watches me with poisonous calm.
Each leaf whispers a small, elegant danger.
The cherries shine with a sweetness that lies.

The belladonna pretends innocence.
I do not believe it.
The bowl holds its breath.
The air leans closer.

I lift the fork like a ritual blade.
The salad does not flinch.
It knows its power.
I know mine is smaller.

The black hyacinth juice waits in a glass.
It is darker than thirst.
It is darker than memory.
It refuses to reflect light.

I swirl it, and it swirls me back.
The scent is floral, fatal, patient.
I drink a little.
The glass hums.

The room tilts politely.
I continue.

No coffee today.
No coffee tomorrow.
No coffee in the kingdom of this meal.
The absence of coffee becomes a presence.

It sits at the table like a ghost with manners.
It nods at me.
I nod back.
We understand each other.

A touch of vanilla gunpowder enters the scene.
It smells like sweetness preparing for war.

It settles on the plate like pale ash.
The salad approves.
The juice disapproves.
I ignore both.

The vanilla gunpowder crackles softly.
It remembers explosions.
It dreams of desserts.
It cannot choose.

Happiness arrives late.
It knocks on the door twice.
It asks if it may stay.
I say yes, but quietly.

Happiness sits beside me.
It does not speak.
It simply remains.

The salad relaxes.
The juice deepens.
The air becomes almost gentle.

I take another bite.
The cherries surrender.
The belladonna smiles its thin smile.
I drink again.

The hyacinth juice forgives nothing.
The vanilla gunpowder softens.
Happiness stays.
Happiness stays longer.
Happiness stays without asking again.

The table accepts this.
The meal becomes a ceremony.
I finish eating.
The forever begins.