The smell of coffee

the Turkish coffee maker

in the tiny Russian kitchen

full of fresh grounds – a dash of pepper – hot water

bubbling and frothing up

his technique was precise and practiced

a ritual worth perfecting

if only he had put such care into his relationships

loneliness would not be his

where does love stagnate?

the bubbles die a slow death

the fragrance turns putrid

the spice and careful concocting

seem too much of an effort

perfection is lost

soured by mistrust and the grinding of bitter feelings

the dregs are left – ground nothing – black

turning to indifference

you began my love affair with coffee

but I don’t know you now