Coffee Stains

I think it was everyday, we went to the cafe,
that cradle of meter and rhyme
and the spiraling truths going round,
truths of every day, like the clatter from the
street below, our conversation falling
like leaves in central park

I spilled my black confessions about
like bitter burning coffee
we mopped them up, a messy stain
so much like myself
I'm sorry, I'm sorry
a broken record spinning round

We sat there and absorbed them;
the smells of cinnamon and of grounds
as I begin to think you a dream,
in your absolution and your ease
a cool and ardent lullaby
sung sweetly to our daily grind

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