Cold Coffee

The memory of your love sits at the bottom of my heart, like the dregs of a good cup of coffee, long gone cold, almost bitter and now tasteless.

But still I swirl the coarse remnants, round and round, mixing the now too sweet sugar, water and saliva into something I’m convinced will taste like the beginning.

That this end will remind me of what hot coffee tasted like, and will help me maybe want to order another cup.

So I drink these dregs, I suck them in through my teeth like honey.

Like it’s the sweetest thing I’m having today, and allow the tepid bitterness to sit and swirl in my mouth until it becomes warm again, until the sugar mixes in with the coarse grains of coffee, and I swallow.

The emptiness of the cup before me echoes.

I want to spit the last bit of coffee back into the cup, but it stays swallowed, travelling down to warmer parts of me.

In an hour I forget that I had dregs of coffee.

In a day I forget how they tasted.

In two weeks I swear off coffee completely.

But six months later I still remember what that first sip tasted like.


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