A Cup Of Black Coffee

When we can’t let go
We look for our past in the tiny aspects of our routines
Most of us will not admit to this
Because it’s embarrassing to find love
Or loss
In these odd crevices of our daily lives

And it’s true–
It is hard to embrace vulnerability
(…But we don’t want to admit that either)

I’m going to admit it here though:
I think of you when I finish cups of black coffee
Especially when I’m left to stare at the grinds that cradle themselves in the
dip of a tea cup
Sometimes my memories of you are so real–
Like on the fourth night of my Puerto Rican vacation
In the midst of a thick and heavy conversation
That I was only half paying attention to
(Tangled between being a good listener and remembering you)
I had a flashback of Princeton, NJ in late September
You sat adjacent from me at a table too large in Small World
And this day (instead of staring at my empty cup of black coffee like I’ve
found myself doing recently)–: it stared back at me
While I watched you–the tiny parts of you:
The graceful movement of your fingers as you explained addiction to me
Your eyes listening to me explain meter in poetry
And how during these moments I knew our hearts were slamming into
our rib cages because of the desire that was seeping out of our pores
for each other
I felt like I was in a dense fog during moments like those
We wanted each other so desperately–but didn’t know how to safely show it
Instead we gave each other heavy hearts

But tonight
I realize there isn’t much of a difference
Between the empty cups of coffee
Of then and of
Now

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About laurenfedorko

Aspiring writer. English teacher. Philosophy: know more about the world than you did yesterday and lessen the suffering of others.
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One Response to A Cup Of Black Coffee

  1. Pingback: of things kept

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