I still wake up and smell coffee brewing. Even though, The *** is gone. You took it with you on the same day you said, You didnβt like poetry. It made me feel like the tree in my front yard. My neighbors refuse to let us cut it down, Even though everyone knows itβs dead. Now I try to rest my comfort in A mug of chamomile Or over a book I know youβll never read. Because in the winter we went to a book sale Where you bought me a latte And, let me read you poetry.