Black, bitter coffee


Please read the amazing poetry of a talented writer.

Jehona Thaqi

Black, bitter coffee on a sunday morning,

or was it monday, I do not quite remember,

for the days have become the same anyway;

I sit silently in the corner of our living room,

my spine curled and pressed against the wall;

so much space upon the couch we bought,

but I am afraid of not being able to fill the spaces you have left empty.

Black, bitter coffe on a friday night,

or was it saturday, I do not quite remember,

for the days have become the same anyway;

I weep into the freshly washed cussions of our bed,

they smell like lilies and honey,

they smell nothing like you, for I have washed them too many times since the last time you visited,

your scent has vanished out of this house,

yet it is present in everything I touch.

Black, bitter coffee on a wednesday afternoon,

or was…

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