I woke up the other day to realize I’d put all my eggs into one basket—my former partner’s. While my own remains empty. I’ve spent too many hours gazing out my rear window, looking after, and waiting–expecting a soufflé she hasn’t the inclination or recipe for.
Time to pick myself up, dust off my feathers, and rebuild my own nest.
Lay a few eggs.
Hatch my own life.
I’m fully capable of, not only omelets, custards, and souffles, but of whatever else my dreamy little mind wants to concoct.
Time to move on again.