Cayetano Young | + Follow Poet |
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Brewed Morning

screwed.bumped.bruised.fingers caressing a flossy silhouette which happens to be a cup of
brewed coffee.savoring its stunning richness while helplessly  drowned in sincere fondness
from its hypnotic scent.better than hell.better than a new-mown hay.better than anything
else that i have sniffed. it's captivating whiff has a distinct likeness from a baby's
breath.sweet.innocent.unknowing.it somehow appeases the wrath trapped in yearning that
once shook  my bone and cracked my shoulders.better than a morning mist.better than a
perfume on my wrist.a way better than my alcohol breath. it soothes the voice of grievance
that once remained unheard,spoiled,wormed caused by some ungodly reasons that transcend
such human beliefs.'twas like holding a huge sneeze frightened to blurt it out for people
are destined to say ewww!

then i stutter, the wind that passes through my windowpane,gently fondling my skin as if
into my soul, tends to be humid.

bound.broken.half death.nothing left moving but a heart that pounds its own flesh and a
mouth that pushes a dying breath.dried lips have been refueled by an extinct satisfaction
brought by a tea-like pungency of such heaven scent.better than chocolates.better than a
chilled whiskey. better than a guilty pleasure in my bed.tangled in drastic devotion on
how it bathes a craving tongue down to a thirst throat as it replenishes a  brittle heart.
tied into its bizarre bitterness that hinders a body from aching as it pulls a grown-up
litany from its own wreckage.its caffeine d tartness sympathizes upon a burning
discernment. like a flickering ember playing on its flares. burning hot burning
slow.burning until its own gleam stops from its own glow.

ironic as it seems, the wind that passes through my windowpane continuously swishing
humidity as it was.

torn. numb. trembled. clock tick-tacking as it performs its obliged morning ritual that
leads my ear to its bleeding. both hands still slithering the polished receptacle of now
consumed must-have to death gladness while battling to gasp for air to at least ease a
particular suffer.forgetting all I'm missing. completely incomplete.still can't exude a
certain degree of contentment from its intimate delight. desperate to bring back that
bitter sweet remedy that once pulled my puzzles from bits and pieces. a passionate
obsession . a one in a million.the sweetest fun.

tonight it will be intensely bitter than the last cup.
always could then be bitter.until the wind that will pass through my windowpane wont be
humid no more-as it supposed to be.

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