kitten cup.

I want to pour you a cup of coffee
while you read your morning paper
(if you read the newspaper)
and you can sit there with your glasses,
saying stupid shit I don’t care about:
the government is too intrusive,
national healthcare is a huge hurdle
we have finally crossed.
You don’t understand why
more men aren’t feminists
(neither do I.)

I will flip the pancakes while you rub your face,
feeling all those dark prickers you call a beard
before laughing and asking how you look.
You know exactly what I’m going to say:
(“I like your beard, silly.”)
But you ask every time because you need to know
someone is always going to accept you as is
because, just like for me, this is all new.

You’ll finish your first cup,
then your second,
and I’ll watch you slowly sip your third
when you say that we should go to the park
or watch that new movie you heard about.

(Or I could finally clean the bathroom
because you and I are too involved
with the lives of fictional characters
than our lives in this apartment.)

You’ve always been so sensitive,
I could always read it in your eyes:
when you scour the room filled with strangers,
when your brother is more successful than you,
or when I don’t answer you right away.
(You’re afraid of loneliness but prefer to be alone
and yet, you have the two acting as synonyms
I always liked this about you.)

It was late and you poured me coffee.
3 AM to be exact.
(I sat on a dirty old couch
in a dirty living room
in clothes too nice for that night.)
You made it fresh, just enough,
And you somehow knew exactly how I wanted it:
2 sugars and some milk.

You brought it to me in a kitten cup,
and you said you found it by accident for a penny.
So we drank, quietly and without words.
(The silence said everything.)

And in between
fits of laughter, funny faces,
and wrinkled noses,
we saw the dawn.
(Grey, blue, and foggy:
a muggy summer morning.)
Silence lifted her veil and someone spoke:
“It’s early.”

But neither of us had slept because we watched
re-runs of bad comedic television while
drinking your Colombian coffee
that you “splurged” on.
(I adored that kitten mug,
but I was too shy to tell you.)

Bed time.
It was bed time.
But I would find myself 30 minutes away
sound asleep at 7 AM in the clothes I wore
in that dirty living room
(you never did sleep anyway.)
And you would ask if I made it home,
but I fell asleep.

Lonely versus alone – you wait.
Synonymous or confusion – you wait.

I want to pour you coffee in the morning
which is going to be 12 in the afternoon
(neither of us really sleep)
and we’d have pancakes for lunch
while I sip from my kitten mug,
Listening to you sing your praises:
our president hasn’t backed down,
our youth are becoming more politically involved,
and how Murakami can write a “mean novel.”

(And I’ll agree.
I was the one who made you
read him to begin with.)

7 thoughts

  1. This reminds me of “The Fault in Our Stars” I don’t know why, maybe the language. It’s beautiful. Hope you don’t mind that I’m stalking your writing. :p

      1. OH MY GOD what’s the link?! haha

        And you deserve the flattery, I don’t think you know how incredible you are. Like, seriously this is all something I would read in one of my creative writing classes.

        I am a HUGE fan of yours. Like, seriously, if you are ever selling a book of poetry or anything at all. Send it my way.

      1. Well, you should publish them because my book shelf really wants them!

        And oh my god yay, I’m going to book mark the page and check back frequently. I don’t have a tumblr though, so I can’t comment on them. :[

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