I will say this: You left a bird with a broken wing.

On that day, life, as I had known it, ended. Red lights seemed eternal. Sad lyrics left me raw. This was the beginning of what you would conjure.

Silence became a lover and the ocean, his touch. I learned to feel without words. I came late to understanding: all that we take, all that we do, ebbs and flows, a Karmic cocktail, a tsunami of emotion.

Perhaps, you did not disappear in such an unholy manner. Could it be you remain, waiting to be found, amongst the stones scattered at my feet?

TBC

~ Annie

Draft

It takes patience to procure the perfect cup of coffee beginning with the French beans to the water’s roll. Next, is the slow pour over and finally, the decisive press.

Take pleasure in the art. It’ s a ritual allowing time to be.

Rain hits the pavement. Leaves dance in the wind. Somewhere, in the distance, a door slams. A wind chime rustles. A baby cries.

I am still. Peace waits within sips of strong coffee.

The first taste is always too hot. The last, too cold. There is a moment between these two extremes, the sacred space of seeded memories, whispered prayers, the spot where lovers meet.

You say, “Come to me.”

We are in Paris. You take my hand and lead me to shelter, far from the storm.

The Art of Coffee In The Rain

draft