Coffee stains the page,
different marks for different days,
and pages curl at the edges,
from heat, from age.
It's a bitter morning wake up,
when the sun is bright and new,
surrounded by the smell of coffee,
the sounds of typing too.
Or early morning reading,
as the bookworm reads the book,
or the scratch of pen on paper,
the poet in their nook.
Coffee stains their hands,
their page, their veins,
lost in their dream of word and coffee,
the outside world is drowned in rain.