The mug was warm, but the coffee was cold,
we traded safe stories already old.
Weather and traffic, the headlines, the queue—
a thousand words spoken, but nothing felt true.
Two nights before, on your rain-slicked porch,
tea steam rising like a slow-lit torch,
you leaned back easy, rain damp in your hair,
and said, “I don’t like who I am at work, I swear.”
The night went still—like it held its breath,
your words cut clean, like a truth or a death.
No filters, no frosting, no lines to rehearse—
just honesty raw, both blessing and curse.
We spoke till the tea was colder than stone,
till the rain moved on and the moon took the throne.
Small talk’s cotton candy—sweet, gone fast.
Deep talk’s the meal built heavy to last.
So I’ll spend my breath where the true hearts meet—
on words that bruise deep, not words on repeat.
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