In memory of my first pour-over coffee
*With respect to Van Gogh’s Café Terrace at Night
Sitting in a quiet corner,
the aroma drifts, luring you—
a dream woven in steam.
You wonder how long
before you catch up,
before you lose yourself
in this tiny cup of hand drip.
The first sip—
a quiet sorrow seeps in.
A wrong choice, you think,
bitterness curling at the edges of your doubt.
Deceived by this little cup,
you forget the beauty in its scent.
Yet the fragrance lingers,
a whisper you cannot resist.
Perhaps an illusion, you reason—
but your hand moves faster than your mind,
a second sip, two fleeting seconds,
sourness uncoiling, sharper than before.
Your heart seeks, lighter, lighter,
wandering a fog-lit cobblestone road.
Aroma glimmers like scattered fireflies,
darting just beyond reach.
Longing for a glimpse of fortune,
you step forward,
only to stumble on the unimpressive stones.
But here you are again,
seated with a cup of hand drip.
Not so terrible, this taste of life.
One last sip—
sourness fades, fruitiness unfurls,
like a waterfall in a gentle spring.
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