biffable

I push down the handle of the toaster.     Turn around, open fridge.     Find peanut butter.     Wait for toast to pop.     These motions are automatic; I am too busy thinking of you.     Toast pops.     Spread peanut butter.     Sit on couch and smile, because I remember you complaining about how squashed the cushions are.     Take bite.     I can’t taste it; instead, I feel the cold sweetness of strawberry ice cream on the day we went to the water park. I got a brain freeze, and you laughed.     Swallow.     The bite pushes against the black lace choker you made me, back when you were in your goth phase. You tell me now tha