If you are absurd
And you love it,
Then you would probably
Love this tale as well.

I love to be in the nostalgia
Of the bitter and blatant;
No cream, no milk,
Just the black swirls and whirls with rivulets of tears.

And postcards were scarce
And you play Ella Fitzgerald
And drink seven cups a day,
And no, honey, it’s totally fine.

Delve and dive in the nightmares
Of the past and the disgusting cheap latte,
And add tears instead of brown sugar;
It’s the best coffee you’ll ever have at two in the morning.

You warmth slips past my eager lips as I take you in,
Your fall spice tickles my senses as I sigh, falling into the joy of our annual ceremony.

I am not alone in my adoration of you, but I do not grow jealous as others call your name,
Rather I find a sort of community in our shared appreciation,
Like a perfect song you were meant for the world, not one,
Yet each of us singular in the definition of our experience with you.

And so I wet my lips, again tasting the hint of a memory of your last kiss,  I prepare to brave that soft beacon hill of whipped cream topped with a seasoning so familiar yet unknown.