I wish I had someone to make coffee for in the morning.
Now, I already know what you’re thinking; this is another double-meaning manifesto about Love. But allow me to clarify right here, right now, and before you read any further… that it isn’t.
The fact that I wish I had someone to make coffee for in the morning, has no fancied meaning. If I wanted to have dessert with someone, and wake up to spoil them with breakfast, I would’ve said so. I would have generously avoided the hurdles of poetic interpretation and imaginative frustration that would’ve resided within you, the reader.. And I certainly would’ve spared myself, my cover.
What I wish I had, is someone to make coffee for in the morning. Someone to prepare a mug for; to shower with two spoonfuls of sugar, to let the medicine of their Mondays go down… every day of the week.
I’ve never been a religious drinker, myself. But lately, coffee has become the Maury of my mornings. It’s become an art form… a delicious dose of warmth that livens my otherwise frigid body, as it emerges from the coldness of night. Coffee smells like the perfect winter morning; like the breath I’d smell from my mother’s lips, as she’d snuggle little girl me against her chest, whispering those three little words…
Coffee greets me good morning. If I could, I’d prepare you a cup & let it speak… Of course… hoping it’d wish you the same at your sunrise.
-m e l i s s i m a