Breakfast

On how sometimes our daily lives seem like a war.

Breakfast lays cold on the table from this morning,
a white napkin draped over it
like the white sheets they drape over the ones
who have given up.
Strawberry jam blots the white napkin
like the crimson that blots the tourniquets of the wounded
Breakfast lays cold on the table from this morning
because I gave up on it
like you gave up on me.