COFFEE

I drink coffee. 
I drink coffee because it’s like the rooster-call to my mornings.

I drink coffee because coffee understands my need for a companion who is warm. And silent.

A sharp contrast to an early December morning gust of breeze.

I drink coffee because when it passes down my throat, I could feel my lover’s fingertips caressing the folds of my skin.

Love is like coffee. Warm and refreshing till abandoned.

I drink coffee because it understands my longing for solitude.

I could sit with a volume of Plath’s poem and stare at the distance and the coffee won’t ask me what I am thinking.

I drink coffee because it gives me strength.

With every sip, I could feel drowsy, lazy, sleepy monsters rising awake in me.

I like my coffee black, the color of my lover’s soul (I guess it’s hardly surprising that my love is bitter.)

I like it strong, like the arms of my father.

I like it well-stirred, how a stray piece of poem stirs up forgotten nostalgia in me.

I like to make it myself because matters of love need self confrontation.

These days, I do not chug mugs and mugs of coffee anymore.

Maybe it is because thoughts of self-destruction come hardly, of late.

I relish and savor the taste, take small sips and when it is just the dregs remaining, I still keep holding the cup.

The warmth seeps through the pores of my skin, into my veins, my bloodstream.

My blood smells of coffee.

It’s a smell like no other.

An aroma that reminds me faintly of sunrise at the beach, wind against my cheeks and sand under my toes.

I drink coffee because it brings insomnia.

And insomnia saves me from nightmares.

Coffee, I am grateful to you.

You  bring me poetry too.