it was a tuesday when the rain presided
over our vows—the lusty blue kind with droplets
big as your soul, heavy and falling.
she took my hand and i shivered; she promised
love eternal like grains of sand you’d find in
an hourglass. she slid on the cubic zirconia,
and it clung to my finger as powerdroplets pelted
i don’t remember what i said to her. she had
agreed to it all before: the bands, the words, the
eternity. and i shivered in four pieces of too-tight
armani and jesse chou boat shoes—i think.
i remember the flowers sagging behind the altar.
i got up the next morning for coffee. i get up
most mornings for coffee. for 30 whole, beautiful
minutes i inhale the aroma of beans, count them,
slide them gently into the grinder with a reassuring
whisper—”you’ll be great today”—and watch them whirl
beyond their soulless predictions to a luscious,
sea of fine grains.
and then, i steep. she has eternity, yes, but
i have a 4 minute medium-roast sumatra, a
mahogany brown, that pours in fragrant droplets
before the rain has a chance to fall.