Coffee Beans

Words appear in my head, and I write them down.
It’s that simple, even though simplicity has nothing to do with it.
The point is not the complexity of the task at hand. When it comes to degrees of difficulty, I’m as lost as you and in need of a stiff drink and an even stiffer upper lip.

Reveal everything about yourself by looking deeply into my eyes. I promise before we’re through, we’ll have either fallen in love with each other or fallen out of another poor excuse for what may have passed for a relationship in another century.
I always believed your sense of style was timeless until realizing you were receiving your best ideas from someone else’s magazine cover shoot where all the models suffer from eating disorders and believe the objectification of one’s body is a small price to pay for immortality and a six figure salary.
The coffee beans were over roasted and tasted burnt, but that’s okay. I prefer my coffee well done and my morning Danish to be filled with cheese and endless regret, just like I preferred you lying in bed looking up at me with your crescent moon shaped eyes before we visited the church for the final time.

Words appear in my head, and I either accept the task at hand or do my best to ignore it.
If I choose to ignore it, I’ll never live it down because the words will haunt me like sourdough ghosts in the heart of the Tenderloin in San Francisco.
I am a poet, not a rabbi, police chief, or CPA. I am unpaid and constantly on guard, but those are the choices that I’ve made.
The sacrifice was the easy part. The hard part starts now as I do my best to figure out why I was forsaken and to whom I should take my complaints to.

Charles Cicirella
10/2/14