I run on coffee.
Steaming hot. Black. Bitter.
Snacking my way through life
One too many cookies here
Bountiful servings of fries here
Bars of chocolate there
You sit me down
“Honey, you need to eat
You know food? The real kind.”
I will do better.
But what do I really mean
I don’t want you telling me about my shitty eating habits.
I want you to leave.
Instead we sit here in my kitchen
You on the white sinking table
Me on the floor leaning on the door.
About my love for crispy fries splashed with tzatziki
About my trip to the kitchen at 3am for cookies and coffee.
But what do we really mean
How do we tell each other that this is it.
We taste not honey when we kiss
Instead we taste warm coffee.
And we both know
Good coffee is anything but warm.
Where is the honey, honey?