You make me coffee
in my favorite blue cup.
One sugar, no cream,
spoon still in it.
And I feel known.
You sit beside me,
flash your crooked smile
at my mismatched socks,
my sleep-smashed hair.
The cat waits at his bowl,
patient, as if he knows
some moments are bigger
than cat food.
There's no story here.
Just coffee,
your hand on my shoulder,
and a morning
that doesn't rush to end.
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