Coffee Stains
My Everything
“I'll make the breakfast in the morning” She would say every night before bed. I would smile, nod, and kiss her softly. We both knew she wouldn't. It took almost a whole pot of coffee to get her to wake up, and by that time I would already have breakfast done.
She was amazing to watch wake up, though. Like watching a flower bloom. I would hand her the warm mug, her hazel eyes half opened, half of her hair completely flattened to one side of her head. It wasn't a movie morning, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. She would take in one deep breath before taking a sip of her coffee. “Mmm, just how I like it.” After coffee she would be awake enough to climb in my lap and leave butterfly kisses from my neck to my lips. I hated the taste of coffee, but I loved the taste of her.
Amelia was my sun, she was what kept me going every day. We couldn't be more different, but we balanced each other in ways that people probably wouldn't be able to understand. She was like a storm during the dead of spring, and I was the calm like a winter's breeze. When she would lose it, I was there to anchor her back down, likewise when I was cold she was there to warm me back up.
What I wouldn't give to go back to those days. The days where I could wake up knowing that the one I loved would be lying next to me. Now I look at the new beds that are in our apartment, two twins. One just a regular bed, the other... a hospital issued bed. Set so that she can have it at the right angle to help her breathe. I rarely sleep anymore, I mainly sit in the chair next to her bed, her delicate hand in mine. Her breaths grow ragged as the days go by. Most days she can't even wake up, even though I make the coffee... every day. Just like she likes it.
Maybe if she smells it she'll wake up... Maybe if she opens her eyes she'll give me her smile. And then maybe I'll be able to hear her laugh again. I take a sip of coffee from her mug. I've learned to love coffee, or maybe I just yearn the taste of her lips, I can't be sure anymore.
I think back a few months before she was too weak to wake up. “If you knew... would you have changed anything?” she asked. We were still in the hospital, right after we found out what she was diagnosed with. The tears stung my eyes as I answered her, just as they sting my eyes now.
“Who would I drink coffee with?” I say out loud, again. Answering her old question that she began to ask ritually. Her breath hitches, and she's gone.
She looks so peaceful, but I feel so empty. What am I supposed to do now? “I'll fix you breakfast in the morning,” a ghost of a whisper brushes my ears.
She was amazing to watch wake up, though. Like watching a flower bloom. I would hand her the warm mug, her hazel eyes half opened, half of her hair completely flattened to one side of her head. It wasn't a movie morning, but I wouldn't trade it for anything. She would take in one deep breath before taking a sip of her coffee. “Mmm, just how I like it.” After coffee she would be awake enough to climb in my lap and leave butterfly kisses from my neck to my lips. I hated the taste of coffee, but I loved the taste of her.
Amelia was my sun, she was what kept me going every day. We couldn't be more different, but we balanced each other in ways that people probably wouldn't be able to understand. She was like a storm during the dead of spring, and I was the calm like a winter's breeze. When she would lose it, I was there to anchor her back down, likewise when I was cold she was there to warm me back up.
What I wouldn't give to go back to those days. The days where I could wake up knowing that the one I loved would be lying next to me. Now I look at the new beds that are in our apartment, two twins. One just a regular bed, the other... a hospital issued bed. Set so that she can have it at the right angle to help her breathe. I rarely sleep anymore, I mainly sit in the chair next to her bed, her delicate hand in mine. Her breaths grow ragged as the days go by. Most days she can't even wake up, even though I make the coffee... every day. Just like she likes it.
Maybe if she smells it she'll wake up... Maybe if she opens her eyes she'll give me her smile. And then maybe I'll be able to hear her laugh again. I take a sip of coffee from her mug. I've learned to love coffee, or maybe I just yearn the taste of her lips, I can't be sure anymore.
I think back a few months before she was too weak to wake up. “If you knew... would you have changed anything?” she asked. We were still in the hospital, right after we found out what she was diagnosed with. The tears stung my eyes as I answered her, just as they sting my eyes now.
“Who would I drink coffee with?” I say out loud, again. Answering her old question that she began to ask ritually. Her breath hitches, and she's gone.
She looks so peaceful, but I feel so empty. What am I supposed to do now? “I'll fix you breakfast in the morning,” a ghost of a whisper brushes my ears.