just below the Hollywood sign,
where the hills hold the morning
like a secret they might spill.
I’ll order the chilaquiles,
we’ll split pancakes for the table—
too much, exactly enough.
the coffee will come fast,
the light even faster
sliding across the tiles like it owns the place.
maybe a celebrity at the next table,
trying not to be seen
the same way we’re trying to be.
maybe we disappear for a minute—
the bathroom, the mirror,
that brief feeling of being nowhere at all.
and then back—
to the music, to the clatter,
to Harry Styles on the speakers
singing like time is something you can hold.
but it isn’t
it’s this—
this table, this morning, this almost-remembered life.
already lifting
already gone
even as we laugh like it won’t be.