Morning Offering

Morning Offering

The alarm screams.
I stretch,
a lazy cat arching toward
the ghost of his warmth
still on my tongue.

Outside,
pigeons bicker over crusts.
I brew coffee bitter as regret,
but my fingers trace
the rim of the mug,
remembering.

How he tasted—
salt and musk and last night’s whiskey—
how his hips stuttered,
a stalled engine finding rhythm
under my palms.
How he whispered please
like a prayer
and I answered
with my whole mouth.

The city yawns awake.
I open my laptop,
type:
*Some devotions happen on your knees.
Some altars are made of skin.
This morning, I wake hungry.
Let me be the hymn.