“The Coffee, the Night, and the Unspoken”
“To Love Quietly, While the City Screams”
The noontime coffee still coldSitting on the wooden table,
Ice making the latte colder.
Kaughter drifts from the market below,
Shouts of vendors, clatter of carts,
Voices bouncing off brick walls
Like children chasing echoes.
I sip slowly, pretending the warmth
Fills more than my cup.
But inside, a quiet gnaw,
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
Hidden behind a smile that no one sees.
Somewhere in the crowd
Someone’s fingers brush,
Hands lift a glass,
Toast to a neighbor’s bargain—
I imagine your hand instead,
Fingers grazing mine
In a private ritual no one witnesses,
A secret carved in the margin of this ordinary day.
The breeze carries the smell of coffee grounds,
Grilled meat, and sunlight—
The smells that once could summon you
from memory,
And I clutch the cup tighter,
Afraid if I let go
Even a drop of longing might spill
across the tiles,
Visible to the world.
Afternoon drifts into evening,
The market fades, lights flicker on,
Music pulses from a nearby rave.
The bass shakes the pavement,
And a drunk tries to dance,
Stumbling, arms flailing,
But still laughing—
And I watch him,
Letting the chaos pull at the edges of my mind
While your absence settles deeper in my chest.
The night smells of sweat and fried food,
Plastic cups clinking,
Voices overlapping like broken harmonies.
I pretend the bitter taste of my coffee
Is all there is,
Yet behind my ribs
The echo of your voice
Threads the gaps between the thump of bass,
Pulling at me like a hidden chord,
A melody no one else hears.
Stars prick the black sky,
Lights swinging from rigged scaffolds,
I fold the heat of the day
And the pulse of the night over my shoulders,
Pretend it is enough,
Pretend I am full,
Pretend the memory of you
Is just a shadow in the crowd.
But when I close my eyes,
Your face drifts past the drunken laughter,
Past the thrumming speakers, past the swaying bodies—
And I let the silence hold me
Because silence is the only place
Where longing can breathe
Without being noticed,
Without betraying itself.
The cup is empty now,
The rave fades toward midnight,
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table,
Letting the hours spill forward
While I carry the weight behind my chest,
A quiet love no one will touch,
A farewell that never names itself,
The secret pulse of the world
That I leave behind in every breath.
“Questions Left on a Coffee Rim”
When was there room to see your presence—
Not wrapped in offerings or easy gestures,
But standing on its own,
Weight enough to anchor a trembling day?
Your voice once softened the sharpest hours,
A low flame moving through the air—
I search for it now
In the hush between breaths.
Coffee cools against my palms,
Steam already surrendered.
The rave’s distant bass
Presses against the walls and ribs alike,
A borrowed heartbeat
That will not settle.
A drunk man sways beneath neon,
Arms opening to no one—
His laughter fracturing,
Yet he keeps time with a rhythm
Only he can hear.
I study him like scripture,
As if he might teach me
How to hold desire without breaking.
You brought music once—
Not the kind that ends with applause,
But the kind that stains the silence after,
Leaving the room forever changed.
No courtesy could compare.
I sip what’s left,
As if warmth might return,
As if memory could be reheated.
Inside, an ache curls inward,
Small, disciplined, obedient—
A guest who knows it will never be introduced.
Night gathers its shawl.
Windows glitter,
The bass deepens into something tidal.
I follow your outline through the dark—
Not a body, not a face,
Just a familiar shift in the air,
A note held too long,
Unresolved.
The dancer refuses gravity,
Spinning grief into comedy,
And for a moment I wish
I could be as unashamed—
To stagger toward joy
Without fearing who might watch.
I close my eyes.
The music dissolves into drone,
Into prayer,
Into an incantation that knows my name.
You return there, briefly—
Not as memory,
But as possibility.
I open them again
And find you scattered—
A car’s passing gleam,
A silhouette blurred by strobe,
A stranger’s half-forgotten laugh.
Each vanishes before I can touch it.
The cup is empty.
The night thins.
The dancer disappears into shadow.
I rise without ceremony,
Folding the moment closed.
No confession.
No plea.
Only the quiet,
Only the breath,
Only the love carried inward—
Unwritten, unnamed,
But tuned perfectly
To the key of goodbye.
“Dancing Alone in the Echo of You”
The noon sun slants across the table,
Coffee cooling in my hands,
The foam a pale memory of warmth.
Bass hums faintly down the street,
A pulse that moves like blood
Through the veins of the city.
Your absence hovers over it all,
More tangible than any gift,
More insistent than any friendly gesture.
When was the time to see your loving presence,
To feel the quiet weight of you
Press against the ribs of my day,
More than laughter, more than smiles,
More than a fleeting “hello”
That can be cast aside like a leaf in the wind?
The music grows,
Staccato lights slicing through shadows,
A drunk man tries to dance,
Arms flailing, feet stumbling,
Yet he moves with a strange courage
I cannot summon.
How easily joy can slip from the sober heart,
How lightly it can be worn by someone who does not know longing.
I sip, pretending the warmth fills more than my cup,
But inside, a quiet gnaw—
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
A secret I hide even from myself.
Your voice, if it came now,
Would thread through the bass like a silver thread
Through black silk—
An elegy, a song too fragile for the clamor of the world.
When did you bring music to my life,
True music,
That lingered longer than laughter
And stronger than the friendliness
That others give without thought?
The shadows lengthen,
The sun dips behind rooftops,
Strobe lights begin to pulse,
The rave grows into a living tide of sound.
I watch the drunk man again,
His body a clumsy river flowing in rhythm
With a tide only he feels.
I envy him the simplicity of his surrender,
While I clutch memory like a talisman,
Afraid to release even a note of longing
For fear it might vanish into the night.
And yet, I hear you in the pauses,
In the silence between beats,
A lament drifting over the pulse of bass,
Soft as a sigh in a Heian garden,
Delicate as cherry blossoms
Falling into a pond that reflects nothing but emptiness.
Your face drifts past the flashing lights,
Past the sweating bodies,
Past the echoing laughter,
And I let the silence hold me,
Because silence is the only place
Where love can breathe,
Without being stolen,
Or mistaken for mere friendship.
The coffee cup is empty now,
The bass fades to memory,
The drunk man stumbles into the darkness,
And the world exhales its pulse.
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table with careful hands,
Letting the hours spill forward
While carrying the weight behind my chest—
A love no one will touch,
A farewell never named,
The secret pulse of longing
That threads through every breath I take.
And though the night stretches toward its end,
The memory of you moves through it like smoke,
Tender and relentless,
A lament half-spell, half-song,
A melody of what was never ours,
Yet remains mine,
In every shadow, every echo, every sigh
Between the beats of a rave
And the cooling rim of a coffee cup.
Coffee cooling in my hands,
The foam a pale memory of warmth.
Bass hums faintly down the street,
A pulse that moves like blood
Through the veins of the city.
Your absence hovers over it all,
More tangible than any gift,
More insistent than any friendly gesture.
When was the time to see your loving presence,
To feel the quiet weight of you
Press against the ribs of my day,
More than laughter, more than smiles,
More than a fleeting “hello”
That can be cast aside like a leaf in the wind?
The music grows,
Staccato lights slicing through shadows,
A drunk man tries to dance,
Arms flailing, feet stumbling,
Yet he moves with a strange courage
I cannot summon.
How easily joy can slip from the sober heart,
How lightly it can be worn by someone who does not know longing.
I sip, pretending the warmth fills more than my cup,
But inside, a quiet gnaw—
A hollow carved by your absence,
Folded into the foam,
A secret I hide even from myself.
Your voice, if it came now,
Would thread through the bass like a silver thread
Through black silk—
An elegy, a song too fragile for the clamor of the world.
When did you bring music to my life,
True music,
That lingered longer than laughter
And stronger than the friendliness
That others give without thought?
The shadows lengthen,
The sun dips behind rooftops,
Strobe lights begin to pulse,
The rave grows into a living tide of sound.
I watch the drunk man again,
His body a clumsy river flowing in rhythm
With a tide only he feels.
I envy him the simplicity of his surrender,
While I clutch memory like a talisman,
Afraid to release even a note of longing
For fear it might vanish into the night.
And yet, I hear you in the pauses,
In the silence between beats,
A lament drifting over the pulse of bass,
Soft as a sigh in a Heian garden,
Delicate as cherry blossoms
Falling into a pond that reflects nothing but emptiness.
Your face drifts past the flashing lights,
Past the sweating bodies,
Past the echoing laughter,
And I let the silence hold me,
Because silence is the only place
Where love can breathe,
Without being stolen,
Or mistaken for mere friendship.
The coffee cup is empty now,
The bass fades to memory,
The drunk man stumbles into the darkness,
And the world exhales its pulse.
I rise slowly,
Smoothing the table with careful hands,
Letting the hours spill forward
While carrying the weight behind my chest—
A love no one will touch,
A farewell never named,
The secret pulse of longing
That threads through every breath I take.
And though the night stretches toward its end,
The memory of you moves through it like smoke,
Tender and relentless,
A lament half-spell, half-song,
A melody of what was never ours,
Yet remains mine,
In every shadow, every echo, every sigh
Between the beats of a rave
And the cooling rim of a coffee cup.