He was the coffee

He was the coffee.

Not the kind with cream

or sugar stirred in to make it softer,

no.

He was dark roast,

Folgers strong,

the kind that fills the room

before it touches your lips.

The kind that wakes you up

without saying a word.

He was bitter,

but only in the way truth is,

no disguises,

no fluff.

He came how he came

hot, steady,

rich with something deeper

you didn’t always taste

until later.

He lived in that first morning breath,

in steam rising from a thermos

you weren’t supposed to touch,

but he let you.

Because love, to him,

was in the offering.

In sharing what he loved

without making it a lesson.

I’d sip and wince

and he’d just grin,

not laughing at me,

but proud,

like he knew

I was learning something

even I didn’t have words for yet.

And now,

years later,

I take mine black too.

People wrinkle their noses,

ask why I like it that way.

But how do I explain

that it tastes like him?

Like early mornings on the porch,

birdsong and breeze,

quiet company.

Like the strength he carried

without showing it off.

Like the way he held

so much warmth

inside something most people

never took the time

to savor.

He was the coffee.

Poured daily.

Simple,

strong,

and gone too fast.

But even now,

he’s still with me,

in every cup

that makes me pause,

breathe,

and remember

what love can taste like.