Coffee & Make Believe

Living life off of love, lies, and lattes.

Category: Scribbles & Scrawls


I’m not ready to go
The night isn’t over
I want to go home
I want you to stay
Please don’t leave
I will never beg
I will barely ask
You have to go
Just another minute
Don’t ask me to say it again
This time I mean it

Lost Dreams


Seeing you always occurs in the late hours,
when all is still and we should be sleeping,
like the rest of the city.
Is it out of a natural exhaustion of the mind
that makes it so easy for us to lose our inhibitions,
to do what we do?
Never tired, always wired when we’re together,
always ready to take it too far—
to take on the night.
Perhaps that’s why each memory of you is fading,
blurry and coming back like deja vu,
like a dream that we should’ve had while sleeping.
If it’s any consolation, every hour lost with you was utterly, completely worth it,
and I’d rather have these sheer, fleeting memories over all the lost dreams.

Double Espresso



I have a tube of lipstick,
it’s called “Double Espresso.”
It’s a glimmery, reddish brown.
A Fall color.
But that never mattered to me,
breaker of trend-rules.
I had bought it in the Fall, and wore it often,
until I found a new favorite.
Which kind of resembles every decision I make.
I found it again recently,
and was taken back when I opened the tube.
Its scent, which does not resemble coffee at all,
a sort of sweet smell you wouldn’t expect of lipstick,
brought me back to the Fall.
It brought me back to you.
The first night I wore it was the night that many could claim as
our best night.
The first night I saw you after you returned from your trip,
the night I wore that dress,
the night you took my hands and wanted to dance
in the silent, empty room.
It brought me back to all those nights,
during our highest of peaks,
before we dropped, and lost each other in the deepest valley.
It’s amazing how a smell,
a forgotten tube of lipstick,
could make me that lovestruck girl again
for an instant,
and remind me how the Fall was yours,
and apparently always will be.

Free, Together

52be24e82db675286fff466dbe05c6dcThey made each other feel free,
as if he didn’t belong to her
and she didn’t belong to herself
They only belonged to the night.
Together they were
their own persons, free to do whatever they’d like,
free, together.
And the funny thing is
they were never free,
and they were never even together.

Missing In Action

I’m not sure if it’s that I miss you,
because I’ve never missed you before.
But you didn’t go anywhere.
If I do indeed miss you,
I only miss you now because I know
I will never have you again.
Now there’s a missing piece that I didn’t know you filled.
Now that you’re gone, I can feel your absence.

And that is not a feeling I’ve missed.

A Muse of Great Catastrophe

I’m getting tired of writing ones about you.
Maybe this will be the last.
I’m just so sentimental,
I don’t want to let you go.
As a physical person in my life, I know it has to happen. I accept that.
But as my inspiration, I’m not quite ready…
I don’t think I ever told you, did I?
You were the reason
I started writing again.
Something about you,
something about us.
Our storybook romance,
our lack of want for a relationship,
our undeniable chemistry.
It was you.
And it was me.
And it was what we were together.
Years I went without pen to paper, and suddenly,
one night at 4 in the morning,
I just couldn’t stop.
You were the summer,
I was the night.
We were a dream.
Fading fast, like those Florida sunsets,
but oh, how we colored the sky,
and the world around us couldn’t help but watch.
Everyone could see something
strangely beautiful
as they watched us burn.


That Is The Question

Sometimes I forget
that everything has changed.
That we’re not doing what we’ve always done–
that this isn’t just a very wide valley
before another amazingly high peak of ours.
Feast or famine.
We’ve had some long famines, and it’s about that time
that we would normally begin to prepare for our feast.
But there are no more feasts.
This is a forever-famine.
like I thought we could be.
It’s like when Fortinbras arrives to the castle,
and the royal kingdom of Denmark is slain.
Was I Hamlet in all of this?
Ever-emotional, lost, and overthinking?
At least in the end he was carried out like a soldier,
with at least an ounce of respect.
I was tossed to the wind
like the end of a cigarette–
all used up and now useless.
The past 6 months sitting in an ashtray
since you decided to burn it all up
that cold, bitter night.
Or was it just me who was cold and bitter?
To forgive or not to forgive?
That is the question.
And if I chose to forgive, could I as easily forget?
I wish I could.
I wish these memories could remain untouchable,
But everything I thought of you is
by the one night, the first touch,
the last goodbye.
When I see you again, will it be the same?
Will I be able to remember the hurt in my bones
when you look at me with those eyes
in the way you do,
and say the stupid sweet things
you shouldn’t say but always do
when I least expect it?
Will I forgive and forget, make my way
to the highest peak,
and attend the feast?
That is the question.