Black, cinnamon flavored
I imagine I’m drinking you, as if you’re made of the magic I find in bottomless cups of bitter black at six a.m. when I’m in Zombieland. I remember you as every bold drop plays against my tongue. I remember the way your eyes looked like saucers; dark brown, brown-black, blackish black: eight o’clock irises. I drink you in the mornings when birds want me to smile; I drink you late at night when moonlight begs me to dream.
I will make memories of you crumble like coffee cake.