black coffee without her.

a poem about the way by which grief has its grasp on all parts of me.

Photo by Richie Roberts on Unsplash

when i was seven years old,

my mom told me she liked her coffee black.

i thought it was whack

but then i realized it might just be a lack

of understanding on my part.

--

--

--

writer | editor | poet | all things personal development ↠ alaynadoyal.com ♡

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Alayna Doyal

Alayna Doyal

writer | editor | poet | all things personal development ↠ alaynadoyal.com

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