Expresso Americana Poem by Hardik Vaidya
Expresso Americana
When I go for a cup of coffee, at the vending machine.
It grinds the beans, and with every crush
Releases a waft of memory painted with dust
I sip, I shake, and the dust fades
Emerges the nude of your ever youthful burst
Crunchy, spicy, does not burn my being
Keeps me satiated and yet makes me wanting
I don't need the coffee, I don't need you
I crave for the bubbles that surfaced from you.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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5/6/2024 5:49:08 AM # 1.0.0.1119
