The kitchen's been warm all afternoon, and the bread is still breathing on the board. Somewhere a spoon turns slow in a pot, and the smell, deep, finds you before you find it. You're tired in the good way — the way that wants a plate and then a pillow. Your shoulders, drop. Your breath, slow. The chair, take it. The cushions, sink. The more you lean the softer it gets, and the softer it gets the more you want, bite, chew, stay. Nobody's asking you to move. Just, close your eyes, and let the day go, let it all go small. Warm. Full. Heavy. Home.













