Complexities of Morning Coffee

I wake up in the early morning and the first thing I think of is coffee. 

My addiction to you points out my anxieties. 

You act like you are at peace. 

I just there sit jittering, worrying what you will think Of me if I forget you.

Changes. 

I had to try to stop drinking coffee. 

Politician’s orders. 

It reminded too much of my homeland. 

But tea is not right for me. 

Nor I right for it, but I can’t help thinking 

What if? 

Then I remember you’re everything I want.

My coffee spills and leaves splashes and stains all across the map.

Just as my coffee spills,

My family scatters and gathers their closest belongings

Before their home collapses. 

You have a depth about you I would love to delve in.

An existential study.

That even the best critics would praise, but I haven’t been there in a long time.

I cannot hold on to you without remembering separation. 

The soldiers tear us apart from each other and set us on different ships

Thousands of miles away from the home we once had.

Your aroma haphazardly glues our memories together.

Messy, trying to see among all the dust,

Beauty with the confusion.

Our story is unfinished.

My destroyed home asks me

Where am I most at peace,

6 years old.

I could be anything, build anything.

No fears.

When my dreams hadn’t been ripped apart and shattered,

I was the girl that wrote everything, 

Until I felt the need to sensor my thoughts 

Like a coffee filter 

And silence my pen and paper,

Chaos.

I wish I was home.

The ghosts of war tell me that you like your women like your coffee.

Dark and bitter.

I wish life was simpler.

But then I would never get to know your complexities

Nor feel hate for war, fear of ghosts,

Or the burning chime of a pistol.

Exile.

You introduced me to offstage racism, your politics, and blaming eyes.

And how you can feel frequencies that everyone else can’t.

I worry that you feel my fear in every sip, my voice and heartbreak with every

word I speak. 

War.

When were you going to tell me?

Or was that your plan all along?

To throw me out like yesterday’s coffee grounds or cut up scraps.

Used and unwanted.

I want my old home, a place of peace, safety and family.

You want that plus things I can’t give.

But you always take. 

You are your coffee

Bitter, caffeinated, addicting.

The only patch that keeps me going is comforting words you never spoke.

We had many conversations of desires and mistakes,

But I was burnt by lies and gun shots

That left a harsh, acidic aftertaste.