A Pound of Oranges
Dear Mom,
I’m writing you this morning as I’ve had a battle with insomnia for quite some time. It’s really not the worst thing, I enjoy opening my window and letting what’s left of the night crawl onto the walls of my room. Lonliness doesn’t exist at 4am. I have coffee in hand and it looks like this page will soon see a few stains. You know it’s funny, my mug is chipped in the same place as yours. I think of you every morning as I take my first swig. I swear some mornings it tastes like home, or maybe it tastes like Folgers and a twisted sense of admiration. Either way, these beans have a way to clear the fog from my mind, meaning, my writing can only get better from here—
