I like my coffee bitter: the bite of the day to come. It is a brace for the velocity with which I seek to conquer the world.

​Black as the night and stripped of distraction—Occam’s razor in a cup—it is the guaranteed path to victory. I love its caustic, grounded depth; that scent of maple, nut, and smoke that fills the nostrils like a gentle hand upon the cheek.

It is a kiss of fervent intention, a warmth, an earthly deity.

​But more, I like my coffee made by loving hands—with eyes as still and calm as the liquid in my cup. I seek a smile as sweet as the gentle lapping of milk against the inky, grounded brew.

Every sip is a kiss from the hands that made it; every stir binds the sinews of my heart.

It gives me life so that I may breathe. I like my coffee prepared with precision, and only if by thee—brewed in a Greca, like our namesakes before us, as deep in flavor as the culture that made us

Because only we know how, and I only know because you showed me, not so long ago. Hand in hand. With a cup to my lips, how to make my own mornings, so that I too could do it for you.

I'll stir yours even and sweet, leaving foam to coat your pallet in its steamy serenade, a sheathed dagger to inspire, to embrace, for every hug- for every kiss, a cup for every day I'd hate to miss.