Strange Insistence

Coffee warms my hands like
a memory of touch.
Birds scream their survival
into the morning.

I open the blinds.
Let the sun witness
my stubborn pulse.

Trust is a slow bloom.
I water it with
yesterday's rain.

Fragile as a petal,
it clings to this stem.

Morning sun on skin,
a moth drawn to flame,
this strange insistence on being here.

I breathe in deeply,
counting the ribs
of absence.

The bakery starts up below me.
Bread and heat rising through the floor
like something that hasn't given up yet.

Grateful for this breath,
I exhale
what's left of the night.

--Vera