coffee love

the after taste of another day
is a saccharine bitterness.
piping hot.
in a porcelain mug
chafed at the edges
that tells you
to live. love. laugh.
sipped to the crystal clarity
of the next ticking second
the watchman’s whistle
late by an hour,
and your own laboured
caffeinated breathing
that has once too often brewed
into a melancholic cough
rattling a chest
heavy with its own emptiness.

for the second time in the day
you feel alive
and as the last of the drops
trickles down an upturned porcelain mug
cracked at the bottom
you finally find the courage
to close your eyes
to the day that has been
now rendered memoryless
reassured that another 
two hours twenty-five minutes away
the dawn of a new day
will find you
this time with a steel tumbler
(and similar intentions)
floating with the strong aroma
ready to taste
what the day has in store for you.