Your roots are based in early morning
muffled breathing under
the melody of a rickety AC
and an ambiance of unfolded laundry.
You're black coffee in
maroon mugs with rounded lips;
hair slicked back with tap water,
and the way you toast my bread.
You're the wrinkled shirt untucked
and the Nintendo left charging
on my grandma's antique chair.
You're poetry I can't finish
and definitions soon to come.
