Coffee Isn’t My Fix. It’s the Ceasefire.

Coffee isn’t my fix.
Dear coffee.
You’re a ceasefire agreement
between my nervous system and the day.

We sit together in our space,
successfully cosplaying a person with their life together.

The sun clocks in.
Sometimes warm.
Sometimes aggressive.

It’s you I wake up to.
Wake up for.
Processing emotions beside a full pack of cigarettes
I’ve stopped counting,
for legal and emotional reasons.

Mornings arrive unannounced.
Anxiety has already replied all.
You don’t take minutes.
You don’t offer tissues.
You turn chaos
into a font that passes review.

For decades, you’ve been
my most dependable exchange rate.
No feelings. No growth.
Just liquidity.

My time with you is unlimited.
You’re unconditional,
but the butler fantasy ends at the cup.

I’d die for you
in borrowed Bryan Adams bravado,
from the highest mountains.
You’ve put gold on my heart,
a slightly mangled Don Williams promise.

But mostly,
you show up.
Hot. Bitter.
Zero opinions.
Which, frankly,
is the dream.

If this feels familiar, I wrote about broken glasses yesterday too. Apparently, objects and I are working things out.

More fragments, writing, and daily chaos live on Instagram at @merlynmathias