tuesday mornings

Phoebe Bridgers quietly plays through the hum of domestic activities. The old, wood floor boards creak under your feet as you get up to pour yourself another cup of coffee. You ask where the filters are. I tell you. It's flurrying outside the window, dusting the porch in soft, white powder. I sit at the table, drink my tea, and watch the snow coat the silent street. You kiss my cheek and remind me that the christmas lights are still up. We don't take them down. Not yet. The smell of cheap, bitter coffee fills the kitchen. I watch you take a sip, wincing at the taste, and slide the sugar over to your side. You give me that small, soft smile, and, in this moment, I feel like we could stay like this forever.