“No poems about your morning coffee.”
But I love mine.
It’s organic,
French Roast,
expensive.
I prepare it the night before.
I think about how
the black liquid
will turn tan
when it mixes with the ½ and ½
on the bottom of my mug.
How I will stand at the kitchen sink,
look out the window
purse my lips
and sip.
doesn’t understand
the hint of jasmine
on a spring evening,
the brush of your lover’s
finger on your thigh,
or the perfect cup
of coffee
kissing you full
smack on your lips
each morning.
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