Batch #13

I always start my day with coffee.
I wake up before the alarm goes off.
I turn my head and watch how you are lost in a dreamworld far beyond reality.

I sneak out of bed and walk down the stairs.
The staircases look unearthly white in the bright morning light.
I go down both staircases and enter the kitchen.

While I open the window blinds, the sun fills the kitchen with life.
The grey and white of the kitchen seem to be fresher to the eye than usual.
The sunlight makes the kitchen feel warm.

I put some water in the kettle and put it on the stove.
While I wait for the water to boil, I grab a bag of grinded beans.
It’s a new batch.
Smooth and delicate, a roast of passionfruit and honey.
So the label on the bag tells me.

I grab a cup from the cupboard and put the filter on top.
One scoop of grinded coffee is just about the right amount to achieve the right taste of coffee.

I can hear the water boil and take the kettle of the stove.
Steam escapes from the kettle while I pour the water onto the grind, slowly.
I pour in circles, slow in motion.
The light shade of brown the filter has turned into, gives a subtle contrast to the grey and white of the kitchen.

The scent of coffee teases my senses, as it always does.
Secret love.

I take the coffee upstairs, but just the one staircase.
I put the cup on the table.
It’s a big, wooden table in dark brown.

A notebook lies on the table.
It is my notebook.
It is made of leather, dark brown leather.
The paper is in a refined off-white color, and filled with scribbles.
Written by pen or pencil.

The scribbles tell stories.
Stories of how my mind thinks of what it sees and dreams.
Often it is about you and our coffee.
I turn over the pages and read our memories.

I take a sip of coffee and grab a pen.
As I skim through the notebook, I end up at the last page.
All the previous ones were full of scribbles, just as this last page.
I take a sip of coffee and put down the pen.

I walk up the stairs to you, quietly.

While I climb into bed, I notice you’re not here anymore.
The bed is empty and cold on your side.
I turn my head left and right, but not a trace.

I wonder if our memories were ever really there.
Or just a figment of my imagination.
A tear runs down my face.
Dark as the coffee I just had.

I close my eyes and turn away.
I see a notebook and skim through the pages.
It is blank.

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