I like my mornings slow
black coffee, no sugar,
The kind that clings to your breath and leaves a trace on your silence.
It reminds me of stillness, of pages half-written,
of days I spend thinking too much and feeling even more.
She, on the other hand,
walks in like sunlight
and orders drink that sound like postcards,
sunset pinks, citrus swirls, mango-something
with whipped cream flirting at the rim.
I am the aroma of roasted what-ifs,
the warmth of things left unsaid.
She is the clink of ice against glass,
the fizz of laughter that forgets to be cautious.
We don’t match,
not on menus, not in moods.
She tastes like the part of the day I usually sleep through.
I smell like the hour she always forgets to notice.
But maybe that’s the point.
Maybe some hearts were not meant to reflect each other
just to meet halfway, in a quiet corner of a busy café,
where steam curls into color and bitterness leans into sweet.
And in that moment,
love doesn’t ask you to change flavor
just to notice how hers softens your edge,
how your heat steadies her rush.
So here we are
a coffee and a drink named after summer,
learning that contrast can be its own kind of harmony.
Like sipping an iced strawberry latte for the first time;
unexpectedly sweet, refreshingly new,
and suddenly, your old rhythm made room for a different hue.
