Coffee Cups

By: Maya Bluitt

I'm not sure if the glass is half empty or half full. 
Coffee shops leave me homesick for 8 minute drives to your cul-de-sac, to your arms; you're always busy. 
And although refills and ring stains hold a pointer finger to pursed lips, I can't convince myself the same when I tell you not to worry about it. 
Between schoolhouse sidewalks and the pavement outside of evening shifts, I seek to fill the cracks with you. 
You are my solace when coffee shops don't cut it anymore. 
And neither does tomorrow. 
I wish you felt the same fire that begs you to come over and hold cold hands. 
And I don't mean to antagonize curfews when I ask to borrow fifteen more minutes; I pray to a forever that I know doesn't exist. 
And when some higher power decides to admit to the creation of cappuccino and October leaves, I hope he departs with us still holding hands. 
And if he decides that tonight is our finale, I hope that you don't whisper of tomorrow morning. 
I hope that twilight strolls confess inner extremities and provoke a table for two at brunch. 
I hope white sheets swallow limbs whole and leave us hungry for each other. 
I hope that whipped cream and espresso shots keep us in overbearing chairs all day today. 
But this is not a blockbuster. 
And you don't even like coffee.