Black Coffee

flowers in the ceramic vase
cat hair clinging onto the chair’s cushion
unused candle stands rusted
and the lovely smell of morning
that arrived only a few minutes
after we fell asleep
the stains of roadside food on your sweatshirt
the roughness of winter in your hair
coarse palms, a call of the newspaper boy
unattended

moving your head away, distanced
by this room and that
i walk into your house
discovering things about you, like
reading a story book
a kitchen full of half done things
straining an old brew of pressed coffee
i watch the pigeons come to the door
where you touched my face for the first time

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