Fred Aiken Writing

thick aroma wafts through the air, sipping coffee with a vacant stare,

the taste is bitter, the flavor bland,

a pale imitation of nostalgic receptors firing off into obscure directions

but still I drink it, day after day, decaf coffee that’s here to stay,

a small comfort, a ritual, a habit kept like a secret lover sent off into the night,

a keyboard typing out a last will with the delete button

for in this cup of memory and forget, somehow I find a way to keep the past a secret

bittersweet reminder of what once was, a faint echo of a time that’s now lost

moments of reflection and pause,

the last drop, dripped, spilled, as the doctor note says, no more caffeine, no more thrills