Her Kitchen Light

Another day chewed up, spit out,

and the thought of my own quiet walls,

the precise angle of my blinds,

felt like a dull ache starting up.

Then her text, a photo of the cat,

a ginger smudge, curled on the rug

by the stove. I could almost smell it,

that faint, yeasty tang of her sourdough,

always alive.

And there, the cutting board,

a permanent fixture,

bowed a little in the middle,

dark rings from a thousand coffees,

a hundred wine glasses.

A map of laughter,

of leaning in.

More than a kitchen,

it was a breath.