Coffee

Coffee

She sits at 3 in the morning
In her greys and smoky blues,
Almost merging with her shadow
That is draped upon the stool.

The coffee is strong, and curling.
But the house closes against her, steeply cold,
And she breathes in the wafting steam,
Because the taste warms the back of her throat.

Sometimes, she finds herself waiting for his soft sleep
To dissolve with the sepia as day creeps,
Because she still remembers the reasons,
Even though his good-bye was the slam of the door.

The coffee is strong, and curling, wild.
But she savors its flavor,
Because it soothes the back of her throat,
And she finds sometimes that it’s all she needs.