Paul Anka Was Right, Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Dear Coffee,

I know you are a delicious treat. I love your nutty sense of humour. Your beautiful burnt sienna face stains my soul with desire. I long for you in my weary state and yet now, now you’ve gone and destroyed me. I can’t sleep anymore. I’m left alone, in the darkness of the night regretting the decision I made.

You caught me with your exotic nature. “We rarely brew this one. It’s special. I love it.” said the funky barista as she poured you out into that magnificent dress of a coffee cup.

“I work in the morning, I need to sleep.” I pleaded.

“No, please, just a little longer…please.” you pouted through your brunette cap.

It is now past 3am. Do you know what that means? 3 o’clock in the morning is that magical hour of the artist’s soul. It awakens and flies beyond the mind’s tapestry then free falling through space, time, and coherence. Many a verse has been writ about this hour’s magnificence. How can I sleep now?

I go then to bed, pleading, not to you but to the heavens and their King, that I may taste the sweet dew of sleep for a pair of hours before I awaken to the chill of the morning and frantically chase the minutes through my door and down the streets and into my work place. There I shall need energy to overcome my lack of rest.

There, in the shop I will hear your steaming call “I can help you. You are weary, drink of my youth and be revived.” O, foul temptress of velvety shine, I can’t resist, and must claim you as mine.

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