🥑🍞

they were avo and toast,

two halves that mattered the most,

soft green laughter on crusty gold,

warm mornings wrapped in stories told.


they spread sunlight like butter on bread,

shared crumbs of joy before going to bed.

sometimes life got salty, or burnt at the edge,

but they stayed close, clinging like a pledge.


yet toast can crumble, avo can bruise,

love sometimes loses, despite all we choose.

they left, leaving crumbs on the table of time,

and the knife of absence cut rhythm and rhyme.


but memory lingers like crumbs in the pan,

the soft and the sharp, the moments they ran.

the scent of coffee, the cornered smiles,

the quiet small mornings that stretched for miles.


forgiveness rises, a slow gentle heat,

like butter melting on bread, bittersweet.

they remember the flavor, the perfect bite,

and let go of the edges that cut too tight.


and though they’re gone, the kitchen still hums,

with echoes of laughter, the warmth that comes.

avo and toast, imperfect, yet true,

a story folded into the heart like dew.


one day, perhaps, the pain will lift,

leaving only the taste, a soft, sweet gift.

they’ll speak the name without catching in throat,

and forever remember—avo and toast.


          - Deia


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