JOURNEY & STAINED IS OUR LIGHT COLORED EYES
I Drink Too Much Coffee
The steam rises, curling its fingers like your hair used to do when we’d wake up to the morning sun. Each sip, a bitter reminder of words left unsaid, conversations that kept us up till dawn, fueled by caffeine and sheer will to stretch a moment into infinity.
The mug warms my palms, but not the way your laughter did. On those cold winter days, where the only remedy was a fresh cup and your hand in mine, everything seemed right, even the endless flow of time. The beans, roasted dark, carry stories of places we'd never been but always dreamt of – together, mapping our journey in stains and rings left on old wooden tables.
By the third cup, I’m consumed with memories, each more vivid than the last. The quiet hum of the cafe, the clinking of spoons, your mischievous grin when you'd steal the last piece of food off my plate. I’m jittery, and it’s not just from the caffeine. It’s the weight of absence, the reality of a world with too much coffee and not enough you.
The paper cup crinkles in my grasp, fleeting like the moments we had. And though the city lights are bright and the night's sounds envelop me, in the deafening silence between heartbeats, it's clear – every espresso shot, every whispered secret, every foamed latte was just an excuse, a reason to linger, in the hope that time could be fooled and moments could stretch forever.
I drink too much coffee, but we both know it's never really been about coffee.
The steam rises, curling its fingers like your hair used to do when we’d wake up to the morning sun. Each sip, a bitter reminder of words left unsaid, conversations that kept us up till dawn, fueled by caffeine and sheer will to stretch a moment into infinity.
The mug warms my palms, but not the way your laughter did. On those cold winter days, where the only remedy was a fresh cup and your hand in mine, everything seemed right, even the endless flow of time. The beans, roasted dark, carry stories of places we'd never been but always dreamt of – together, mapping our journey in stains and rings left on old wooden tables.
By the third cup, I’m consumed with memories, each more vivid than the last. The quiet hum of the cafe, the clinking of spoons, your mischievous grin when you'd steal the last piece of food off my plate. I’m jittery, and it’s not just from the caffeine. It’s the weight of absence, the reality of a world with too much coffee and not enough you.
The paper cup crinkles in my grasp, fleeting like the moments we had. And though the city lights are bright and the night's sounds envelop me, in the deafening silence between heartbeats, it's clear – every espresso shot, every whispered secret, every foamed latte was just an excuse, a reason to linger, in the hope that time could be fooled and moments could stretch forever.
I drink too much coffee, but we both know it's never really been about coffee.