At the Café

I like my brokenness like I like my coffee –

strong, bitter, able to carry me through the morning.

I like how we share it, like a cup passed between strangers,

and how we can let it inside of us, let it settle,

let it wash over and drag us down the drain,

and how we take it and wear it like a raincoat

as we drift out into the coldness of the day,

and how we walk each other home

after everyone’s had a taste.

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4 thoughts on “At the Café

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