21 Chapters

She smells like coffee. I can still smell it hours after her morning cup. That smell of French-Vanilla tickles my nose and triggers my childhood memories; the screaming kettle, the rusty ironing board yawning loudly open at 6am. It all comes back to me. Even from a time before me and her. Its difficult to ignore her smile through the glass. She’s the perfect illustration. My perfect description of a good morning. She is my coffee. My caffeine that wakes me. My something to look forward to every night.

I watch as she takes the risk and burns her lips to sip from which she’s holding. Her lusted love, her trusted mug or cup, her drug indulgence. She must be strung, she stops for one, just sucks till’ some is none. Its hot, it numbs her tongue and gums, she not the one I loved.