A long time. Yes, a long time since I last posted a thing here. And more than a year since I last wrote something. In fact, it's been more than a year since I last wrote anything. Take this one for example. This new post. This isn't anything new. I just happened to have found (say, rediscovered) it from my pile of notes in my whatever it is but let's just call it cabinet. I did some cutting here, some changes there, then some erasures. And here it is now. Whatever it is, I now quote what Gabriel Garcia Marquez wrote in his prologue to his book Strange Pilgrims: "I have always thought that each version of a story is better than the one before. How does one know, then, which is the final version?" In this poem's case, however, let this be its final version. For now. Hahaha!
Tonight, I’ll drown myself in a cup of coffee.
The cup’s tiny, fragile—like a pinkie raised—handle
will wait for me as if by itself reaching
for my fingers, thumb and fore,
to clasp, grasp, and at least
for a moment—brief—hug it.
I will feel the warmth in the cup's waiting,
and I’ll feel my lips feel for it
a mutual longing, which will,
at my command, kiss-
caress its rim, and take a sip.
The concoction, black, will please my tongue,
but it will not dwell there, but slowly
trickle down my throat, and I’ll
have to take another sip, another kiss,
another caress, until I contain my lips' longing
and the cup’s longing for me.
Like two old friends long departed reunited
we never will mind the time.
Time will trickle like coffee-drops
trickling down my throat
and the darkness it expects will compete
with the darkness of the coffee in the cup.
But I will not mind.
We will not mind.
For tonight, I’ll drown myself in my cup of cofee,
and the cup will drown in its cup of me.
