two white coffee cups*

reveal every sip,
mark every drip,
the metaphorical  staining
of the man and the woman
in bed
on a Sunday morn,
each sipping and drip drinking
from white mismatched coffee cups

unleashes his tear ducts;
he sips the tear drips

now the coffee tear-infused tastes
just like a stained life,
a metaphor realized

I need to fill up my eyes with your smile
I need to take this cold skin I am wearing and turn it
into something you would wanna touch one day.

I'm holding to your memory
Like an old lady holding to a bag where she keeps the scraps
of a lonesome life—
A photograph, a book and some keys not opening any door.
Not anymore.

I remember the talks we used to have late at night
When you were asking me
Who or what I am
And I've never been able to give you an answear you'd like.
Never found it.

And now you don't ask me anymore
And it's late for anything I say
and the spring is showing her beauty in the air
while I am sitting here with my heart sinking in solitude.
And the wind is blowing, is bringing sadness in these  eyes of mine
while the blossoms are flying up to the sky.

And for the first time in my life I have an answer:

I am the girl with blossoms in her hair
and winter in the eyes

who loves you.