French Pressed

She is my morning coffee. Lord knows I can't live without it. Each day is something different. No two cups taste the same. It depends on the day, really. Our conversation acts as the water. Substance controls the temperature. too little words makes for a cold and bitter cup. We've never been consistent. Neither is the texture of the coffee. Her words are the coffee grounds I press away each morning. Some of her words are so perverse that no matter how many times I try to filter them out, they'll make it through the strain. They'll settle at the bottom of the cup. And while I get lost in the sips in the beginning, those grounds give me a bitter taste in the end. What's coffee without creamer? Her laugh, her smile, her humor, adds milky swirls that look like hearts. But some days things are opposite. The caramel colored coffee isn't an option. There are no smiles, no jokes, no laughter. Every swallow more bitter than the last. But just like the spoon that stirs, there is always a silver lining. Each day I can make a new cup and try to make it better than the day before. 

-Majoogly