I can tell the kind of night you've had by the way you lay your hands on me
fumble to screw the handle on
spill hot water along my sides with unsteady hands and crusty eyes
I can always tell when you have a headache
Your aim so precise and spot-on, normally
has left dribbles along the table, your arms, the covers of books
You barely ever wait 4 minutes for the grinds to brew
so impatient, always
This morning, you've taken me out on the porch with a new friend
the cup and this book
We have gotten to know each other, slowly
I love the way you sit quietly in the morning light
Crickets signing their homemade songs
The sun barely breaking through the mists of human haziness
I am honored to stand guard to your dwindling cup as you slide through feelings, memories
Writing down only what your mouth cannot always say
words that are woven together, elegant, mismatched, part truth, and mostly fancy
No one can argue that you are at the helm of this adventure
I refill to the top of this new favorite cup
Its moon shape changeable - waxing, filling, waning, emptying
These are the mornings I look forward to
unhurried and casual
Sometimes, I sit still a long time, enjoying the feeling of my own weight
every time it changes
I know the heavier the pages, the lighter I become
Your pour
dark, bitter, delicious, and sweet
fills me, like I fill you
Does that make us both writers?
It seems we are at least companions,
vital
conduits of a great flowing of consciousness that pours outward
When I become too light, I know it will be time to finish
You will empty me out of the last bits of dark matter
of fuel that fuels both of us, of our life force
my embers still warm, my knowing
I will have to wait until another tomorrow
to continue this meditation, this being, this aliveness
that brings us together
Old friends, lovers
of stories hidden deep within us
waiting to be inhaled, exhaled
into the fabric of time
