Cup of Coffee


Every cup of coffee has a different story

Depending on who’s holding it

Mine was bitter as I had ordered it black

Sugar and cream free is to my liking

I hate things rich and sweet

Well I guess my coffee that and every morning would forever define me.

Bitter, acerbic, cynical.

Like my drink.

As thoughts of you imbued and invaded me

Every word still so clear as though they were being said by you right beside me, right where I can hear like a fly buzzing in my ear.

The loathing is apparent, a surge of it clogging, congesting my chest

The memory playing out, our argument in full effect, everything recreated like a film. The grip on the cup tightens as tears linger and yearn to spill forth.

It’s a memory I just can’t let go of.

It’s one to remain with me for all my days

Like my cup of black coffee every day, a powerfully bitter taste as everyday a rumination of our painful past.



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