Oatmeal
- Rylie Martin
- Jul 15
- 1 min read
Once,
you asked
what food
you were to me.
I said
oatmeal.
You looked
almost offended.
You heard
boring.
I couldn't find the words
to explain
that comfort
was the highest compliment
I knew.
Oats are hard
until warmth
teaches them
another language.
You were
the first thing
my body reached for
every morning,
the way I broke my fast.
You were warmth
arriving slowly.
Once,
you told me
we were never
the most passionate couple.
I never thought
companionship
was something
to apologize for.
People talk
about sparks
as though
they matter
more than embers.
But embers
are what keep you warm
long after
the fire
stops performing.
I thought our love
was the kind
that couldn't
be stamped out.
The kind that remembers
how you take your coffee.
The kind
that rubs
your tummy
when it hurts.
I thought that
was the miracle.
You kept me alive
in quiet ways,
the ones
people forget
to romanticize.
I'm the sort of person
who could love
buttered toast
for a lifetime.
I mistook
comfort
for forever.
Oats
keep
for years.
I thought
we were
nonperishable.
But that night
we both cried
until even
our embers
went dark.
I haven't
made a bowl
of oatmeal
since.
The thing
that once felt safest
is the hardest
to swallow.
They say tastebuds
replace themselves
every two weeks.
Mine already have.
Apparently memory doesn't.
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