The cup feels perfect,
full with just the perfect amount of warmth.
Warmth, not heat.
No scorching of the tongue and scar
of regret marking the roof of your mouth.
It beckons you for more.
A sip. It must be a sip.
Savor each flavor opening itself to you.
The lavender, the jasmine, the smallest hint
of sunflower blossoms.
They don't clash or fight for recognition.
I taste each one, remembering them
like chapters in a beloved book.
Each sip is different than the one before.
Sometimes the jasmine and sunflower are
prominent, then they fade into the
background giving the lavender the
starring role for the next show.
The dance continues with each sip.
Roles reverse.
The show continues.
Feeling the cup empty is a bittersweet acceptance.
I hold the liquid in my mouth longer,
desperate to discover new flavors.
There are none.
With a heavy heart, I accept the final drops.
The curtain falls.
The aroma fades.
I reminisce.
The bottom still shines with what once was.
I doubt I will make such a perfect cup again.
YOU ARE READING
Caffeine and Me
PoetryA collection of poetry ranging from brain farts to exploring why I bother getting up in the morning. Most likely there is some form of caffeine to keep me awake (or alert) enough to type my thoughts out regarding my depression, struggles within my d...
