In the hush of morning, there exists a holy rite:
The unwrapping of last night’s Taco Bell, cold and intact,
a burrito of five miraculous layers—
beans, beef, cheese, sour cream, tortilla, and mystery.
Is it food? Is it architecture? Is it survival? Yes.
For breakfast, I kneel at the altar of the fridge,
worshipping that dense, chilled cylinder
with the faith of someone who believes in second chances.
No microwave, no judgment.
Just the congealed sauce of nacho cheese, the stubborn fold of flour tortillas,
the flavors that, overnight, have decided to become friends.
A bite is a benediction:
soft, salty, tangy, weird.
A testimony to the gospel of leftovers.
Blessed be the five layers,
the sauce packet,
the impulse,
the breakfast that doesn’t ask you to be a morning person.
In the kingdom of Dreamspace,
may there always be a burrito
for the night after,
and the soul that needs a reason to smile at 8am.
