In the beginning, there was intention.
Last night, you ordered extra. You were thinking ahead.
Or maybe, you simply lost to sleep before the last slice could be claimed.
But Lo, upon the sacred morning, you awaken to a calling:
A cardboard box, a whisper of cheese and sauce,
A thin crust cold and honest as the truth.
Behold! Cold pizza is breakfast for the weary, the wild, the wise.
It needs no reheat, no ceremony.
A slice in one hand, coffee in the other—
This is the Eucharist of the Reluctant Riser.
The microwave weeps in its corner, powerless.
The plate is optional. The flavor is forgiveness.
For what is cold pizza but proof that joy persists—
That a small rebellion can become a ritual,
And that sometimes the holiest comfort is the simplest thing left behind.
Go forth, and taste salvation.
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