Beneath the Eye

The dark, warm plume begins to spiral high,
A bitter velvet cloud against the pane,
And in that fragrant steam, beneath the eye,
The past returns, defying sun or rain.
It is the scent of mornings laced with gold,
The sharp, narcotic call of burnt desire,
But where the caffeine grips, a story told
In echoes of a long-extinguished fire.
For in this cup, the memory takes flight,
A whisper rising with the vapor’s breath,
I drink the shadow of the morning light,
And find I am still tethered, even past death.

This brew, a ritual dark and deeply steeped,
Recalls the fragile curve of sweet Suzette—
The way her smile across the table leaped,
The silent promises my soul hasn’t met.
Her presence was the sugar to the blend,
A porcelain warmth against the bitter rim;
Now, only silence where her laughter penned
The perfect light that made the future dim.
I feel the ghost of fingers on the cup,
A phantom heat where hers had rested last,
And though I try to drain the torment up,
Her sweetness lingers, clinging to the caste.

The haunting is not cruelty, but grace,
A lover’s specter trapped within the air,
Who meets me always in this empty space,
And bids me drink the essence of despair.
I know the fragrance is a binding chain,
A tether forged of ritual and loss;
Each bitter draught re-magnifies the pain
And crucifies my heart upon this cross.
She is the perfect ache within the room,
The phantom texture of the air I breathe,
A lover cloaked in aromatic gloom,
The velvet grief the morning must retrieve.

So let the dark brew hold her in its thrall,
And let the fragrant molecules define
The way my heart will answer to her call,
Submitting to the ghost that is still mine.
I lift the porcelain, cold against my lip,
And take the sip that pulls her close and slow;
My love, my ghost—a sorrowful, sweet drip—
The only heat my lonely mornings know.
She is the perfect shadow in the steam,
The lovely curse that keeps my world awake,
A caffeine-laced, inescapable dream,
For sweet Suzette’s dear, haunting, bitter sake