A mug of coffee poured at eight-fifteen is
different from a cup at one o'clock in the morning.
That's when it starts to smell sickly sweet
and reminds me that I'm up alone.

I'm not a big fan of coffee,
the way it makes my heart race
and hands shake the slightest bit
like your pale green eyes once did.
Staring into a half-empty cup,
I find myself thinking back to when
your midnight kisses would stain my cheeks
much like coffee now stains my shirt.

I can't seem to rest like I used to.
Instead I'm pacing around my room,
around the bittersweet memories of you
that are permanently stained here.

The problem with coffee is
how fast it burns your tongue,
how hard the stains come out,
and how quickly it turns cold.