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a morning percolating 
on my stovetop
builds a bubble of nostalgia

I sip in a Sunday
any day of the week

the aroma transports me 
to all the European places 
I’ve paused in
and invites me to slow down

we made a meditation
every day, before speaking
pouring stillness 
into little cups

in concentrated silence 
we conversed through ground beans

I make my own coffee now
brew it in a moka pot
I bought myself 

a short black oozes in my bloodstream
and each morning is my birthday