We were acquaintances for so long, you and I. The mornings I’d wake up, and smell you, the secret conversation you had with my mom before sunrise. You were omnipresent for so long.

Hot coco was my substitute as a child, but you always had an allure that I couldn’t resist. You were the drink of maturity. Of sophistication. Of comfort. At family dinners you were passed around like a cigarette or a nightcap. Warm ceramic in each of my relatives wrinkled hands. I did not have an invitation to drink yet. I’d close my eyes and pretend to sleep on the carpet a room away, one ear out to hear the insights of those coffee drinkers. Table top philosophers.

Surely only decaf coffee comes out when conversations of utmost importance are about to be had.

My junior year in high school is when I finally knew your taste. Back when heading into a drive-thru by myself still felt weird. I’d order you up and take you out, blowing over your lip as I tried to take a sip. You were rich, warm, and a little bitter. I related to your aloof nature. Depending on you for my sanity’s sake from then on.

In college, I liked the way you became my companion when I had none. You warmed my hands when they had frozen after hours of non-stop writing. And when I found my squad, one piece at a time, you kept me crawling to class, even after a late night and too much wine. You forgave my mistakes, robust and full as ever.

The rest, you could say, is history.
Continues to be our history, present, and future.
My constant companion.
My comforting friend.
Well of inspiration.

Even now, beside me you sit, patient as ever, blowing steam into my face. You whisper encouragement to me as I write and create small crafts. Ever present in my life, I’m constantly grateful for you. And so, we continue our trip through this world, your warm mug in my hand. Bringing life to day-dreams, staving off sleep. I’ll write another line, do another take, and know you’ll be at my side when I need a break.