To my morning cup of coffee

 

And the hum of the coffeemaker 

filling the groggy kitchen. 

Coffee crackling into a thermos

that will later be left forgotten 

upon a chemistry lab counter, 

or in a cubby or a corner.

To the daybreak scent of vanilla roast

and abundant soy creamer.

The sound of the thermos thumping into a cupholder.

To the first scalding sip

under fluorescent classroom lighting.

And every consecutive sip 

accompanied by the amicable pop of the thermos opening.

To the energy in the room,

more of a stimulant than the caffeine.

The walks to the tennis court as the sun rises.

The pervasive enthusiasm that touches my soul

as the caffeine filters through me.

To my morning cup of coffee.

 

I miss you.

 

To Cascade Road,

 

Fifty-five miles per hour.

Foot comfortable on the gas pedal.

The car humming beneath me.

There’s a sense of freedom

punctuated by the music blasting 

from the little speaker in my cup holder.

To the buzz that’s still coursing through me

from parking lot shenanigans 

and the connection of human souls.

To the open window and the wind in my hair

making fifty-five miles per hour 

feel a million times faster.

To the drinks in my cup holder,

half-full, half-empty.

Sweet sparkling sips at stoplights

and fizzy energy in my heart.

To the people in my passenger seat.

Uncontrollable laughter 

filling my soul with bubbles 

that don’t dissipate for hours after.

To Cascade Road.

 

I miss you.

 

To shelves of books I haven’t read,

 

Fingers sliding across delicate spines

to gently remove one.

The soft crackle as it unfolds 

and the rustle of the pages between my thumb and pointer.

To the first few words

and the world that sparks alive with them.

Then, getting lost

in the words, in the shelves,

in the wealth of knowledge and life 

that resides in these softly worn pages.

To a window overlooking a parking lot.

To the windows everywhere,

entangling me in two different worlds at once.

The one outside that window

and the one here at my fingertips,

the one that will always be a little part of me,

and I part of it.

To the people in the aisles

and the stories they have loved.

The stories they will come to love.

And the story of that love

that they tell with passion in their voice.

To a final last-ditch trip

and the stack of books in my arms

that toppled into the backseat of my car

and now sit in a corner of my bedroom, 

letting me hold onto a little piece of what I long for.

To shelves of books I haven’t read.

 

I miss you.

 

To the brightest smile and the most sorrowful tears,

 

Late-night car rides and arbitrary trips to Target.

Blasting ironic music with the bass turned all the way up.

Sharing too small spaces on the couch 

and fleecy, flowery blankets and comforters and pillows and memories.

To trying on dresses at your house 

and walking to get ice cream or coffee.

Then building a fort while we try not to wake your parents up.

To fighting over Disney movies 

or if we should walk to Walgreens.

But eventually being happy with serene spontaneity.

To my first concert,

on a school night.

Confetti everywhere, nostalgia in the air.

Your ecstatic energy that made it even more magical.

To summer trips,

inflatable swans, walks down the pier,

badminton in the backyard.

Lunch and ice cream at picturesque little diners.

Wandering through eclectic antique shops,

and homey book stores, 

and expensive clothing racks.

To thrift shopping, 

and Serbian snacks I’m too excited about,

and tagging along on your mom’s Christmas shopping.

To a million more words,

a million more stories, 

a million more memories.

To the brightest smile and the most sorrowful tears.

 

I miss you.