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.
I would like to translate this poem