Batch #9

I start my day with coffee, always.
Every morning it is the same ritual, always.

I walk downstairs, two staircases.
Into the kitchen.
I have the same method of making my slow coffee, always.
Water. Kettle. Boil. Filter. Grind. Cup. Pour.

I drink it at my table, always.

Ever so often, I drink my coffee elsewhere.
Not at home.
I walk into a coffee-bar within sight, preferably not too crowded.

I enjoy seeing the barista at work.
Her skills are delicate, her patience memorable.
Amongst all those people sipping coffee, she takes her time for my slow coffee.
Like I’m the only one there.

I don’t do this ritual too often.
I want this feeling to stay special, always.

As I enjoy my slow coffee, I enjoy her.
Her gentle hands, golden hair and bright blue eyes.
She never looks back though.

Ever so often, I drink my coffee elsewhere.
But always where she is.

Slow love.
In a cup.

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