Coffee

Whispers at eve marry wisps of steam over red eye And beneath the table my feet finds yours for a footsie Where we hope God's seven eyes will not see, No wide-eyed moon, nor the barista to pry. The moonbeam smears you silvery whipped cream To be licked off greedily by my tongue grown too frozen for poetry Caffeinated by your darkly roasted coffee - skin I will on a grand piano serenade you on a whim. Are there words you secretly crave I should know Such as the zephyr tells the shrubs of coffee arabica that they dance gaily in the skies? Would they be served well-expressed in my eyes After the sixth emptied demitasse of expresso?