There were mornings I couldn't wait to serve you

coffee, made with love so pure

it would drip all over into the little percolator

you bought me, reminding me to make it

strong enough to grow nails on a man's chest

as I woke you up with a mug

steaming, wafting smells so sweet

java for your soul

your nose wrinkling, choosy, a sip

to taste if perfection in a white mug had made

its way to your bed, by me

in your old boxers and pretty much nothing else

my hair in disarray, carefully arranged on my way in

my nipples ready for your lips

draped all over you, your knees between my legs.

And now I couldn't care less if you go without

coffee, me or whatever.

Everything changes

and not necessarily for the better.