It was nice as long as we were sipping the coffee,
its warmth flowing down our throat like molten honey,
the taste of your quickened heartbeat and the
slow vapor from the coffee cups
were becoming the wet softness on my cheek as
we were hoping for a day in the future.
But when that day comes we had already spilled the coffee and those caustic words
making an ugly stain on the white table cloth.
4 comments:
Ouch! Spilling is dicey :(
This is a fine poem Baishali. I like the coffee metaphor.
and yet the stains left on the soul
by words spilled in anger
is harder to clean than those
left by the coffee on cloths.
Nicely written
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