cold mist over a hill, covering a little light smoke wafting through the window. strong garlic scent carried inside, a warm room where people smiling reside. eggs sizzle on a pan, with mushroom and onion. cheese sprinkled over the top as the dishes spin out before the hungry ones. the crunch of toast, a light curse from a burn, several questions if they're okay, one comment that they'll never learn.
the mist hides the smoke, the smiles hide the sadness. the eggs burn on the pan. the mushroom got me higher than I wanted and the onion made me cry. I'm allergic to cheese and the dishes are empty anyway. This toast is burnt black as shit! Am I OK? what a question! I can't unlearn this place in my mind, so I guess I'll never learn it.
Flaws or fullness? in my head or with my friends? It's not a choice unless one is made; but regardless: Home is where I am when I have breakfast.
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