Morning Coffee

S.M. Moore

I saw you last night bathed in a pinkish-white glow. Not that of angels or cherubs but more the heated, glowing aura of shame and embarrassment. I tasted your regret, bitter as goldenseal, although nothing hinted toward healing. Are you having difficulty forgiving yourself, or is it a feeling of shame or regret for loving one such as me? I know all too well the societal opinions that stick like pinesap, irritatingly stubborn and so difficult to wash off that the remnants seem to live on endlessly. The stigma does not bring me shame, yet I see where it could have made life so hard for you.

I saw you last week among the ‘normal’ society, laughing at the "normal" jokes told by the ‘normal’ guys. Your smile was false and flirtatious as your desire to love unchallenged and free of judgment seeped from your pores slowly… thickly. Your skin emitted a sickly-sweet deception like the lure of aromatic molasses – not pleasing upon the taste buds but so tempting in its scent. You didn’t even acknowledge me, not your man, never your woman—not even human, except maybe a quick glance from the corner of your eye when no one was looking or they were looking at your breasts, your legs. I felt your shame (or sham) as you stood on display, and it made me stronger. For a moment I hated you – then I loved you more.

I saw you last month lying in my bed, morning touching your hair, your eyelashes, and your bare shoulder. I remember softly kissing your forehead before slipping from the sheets to go make coffee, and you moaned ever so slightly, implying contentment. When I brought your coffee to you in bed I saw you, you didn’t think I did, but I did. You quickly squeezed your eyes shut and feigned sleep when I re-entered the bedroom. In that moment, when your eyes were still open, not seeing me, they stared off to another place, vacant and troubled, and I felt like an intruder spying on your most private moment. When I smiled and handed you your cup, warm and sweet, I discovered the falsity of your contentment as that smile sought out and firmly attached itself to my lips. Did I appear to need reassurance? I knew (and you did too) that this was the last cup of coffee, and I savored every single sip with you wrapped in my masculine-gray Egyptian cotton. Some people say that love is not enough, and I never have believed in the ridiculous notion until that very moment.

I saw you ten years from now and you were content, happy, and surrounded by children and grandchildren, love and light. The person responsible, that significant other, was unclear – faceless, sexless. I recall many memories and feel no anger, no regret but a slight sadness in knowing that the world was not ready for what we had together. The public restroom disturbances, the closed minds of so many… Perhaps the world never will be able to allow you to be my woman or for me to be your guy. I don’t blame you for having to walk away, for saving yourself—nobody needs or deserves to live in a steady state of turmoil. As for now, this moment, I am not ready – I cannot fathom replaying the scenes only to find the same ending, yet I wish this for you– no matter who brings you coffee in the morning.