In which Wazzo finds out there’s a poem about coffee

One of the few. There’s one written in Filipino but that can probably wait for another day. This was written a million coffee cups ago.

Lament of a Barista

I wanted to say,
Come back.
The coffee is hot and
the moon has barely risen.
Stillness is a potent brew
in my paper cup and,
wishing for eloquence,
I sprinkle it with stardust.
The air is so ripe for conversation
I could catch whiffs of
places you’ve seen or paint
the skies you’ve slept under
even in my dreams.

But you were quick
to turn away as usual.

I have always wondered
what it was that kept you
from drinking with me
from the same cup:
the bitterness of memories,
the scalded tongues,
the sleepless nights awash in tears, or
the starless skies where you had
hung your broken dreams.

Your eyes have always been
the darkest, saddest pools,
haunting, daunting like
the shadow of the moon.
And they made me want to say,
Come back.
This is the perfect brew—

coffee, moonshine, stardust,
me and you.

But I did not.

I tied my tongue in hopeless knots,
stared silently into my cup,
and slowly stirred in tears
more bitter than the strongest beans.

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