Stirring cream clouds in the muddy waters
reminds me that I was not always like this.
I didn’t always drink my coffee black.
I didn’t always take the time to look back.
I wasn’t always so matter of fact.
You used to drink it black, you know.
Until you didn’t, and I still did. And when
your body left the cup-stained outline
impression on my mornings but existed
as a ghost in my mind, I started drinking
two cups again. And on the chilly days where
my toes curl up in soft sheets, I might
even make a latte, and foam the milk
the way you used to. I’d add the flavor
and maybe some chai, but never the sugar.
Never the sweetness. I keep my coffee
bitter- a bitter memory of you, and all the
versions of you that taught me how to brew.