Cinnamon Coffee

This cinnamon coffee. How it ripples in the pot reminds me of my deep, dark sighs and how they trickled down the valley of your back and into you. The pop and gurgle brings to mind the palpitations upon our first meeting. This hiss and steam, how it lingers and dissipates quickly, is like our memories of Bella in the backseat, the powerful stag that seemingly foretold our fertile future and sleeping above fermenting yeast. It brings to mind pictures of your bottom, breakfast with flamingos and that radiant smile only because it was my eye behind the camera.

Forgive me. I wasn't able to convey the strength of what was building nor the vines of content that began to wrap themselves around my spine. How was I to convey this when you couldn't even hear me breathe? It's neither here nor there, I suppose, but I pray our paths cross again. I hope to look up at my book signing, one day, and see your face, beaming from the crowd. We'll embrace and laugh it off as a misconnection of soul-paths or maybe...just maybe, we will sleep above fermenting yeast again.

Please keep the shirt. It's somehow comforting knowing that where my heart once beat, yours does now.

Esteban Luis Soto (c) 2011


Popular posts from this blog

The Silver Syringe

The Beauty in Weeds