Brewed Daylight
By daybreak I find myself completely drawn to warmth and comfort. These days when winter solstices and aerial views of colloids of snow. London was such a sight to see in December, fluffy puffs of chilled smoke glistens the area and children nearly scatters the whole expanse.
It is also the time when death was very immense and the need of reapers were as much needed as those of thick winter coats and horrid fur boots.
I see my William, huddled in the near-end corner of the living room, practically screeching for warmth in his position; a dark-red blanket perched upon his shoulders.
And a black, brewed coffee in a plain white mug, settled upon his lips as if the coffee kissed it every time he stole a sip.
My, such an adoring sight to see.
He lifts himself off the couch and places the now-empty mug in the sink. His tongue licks the remaining coffee off of his lips, probably still tasting the bitter drink.
He moves about, grabbing his briefcase and the rest of his files, briefly skimming the pages and arranging them the way he always does. He does not forget his scarf and his long coat, the only thing that protects his cold posterior.
"Hurry, we'll be late." His lips moves, slurry and cranky, and I see the need for his coffee every day.
I grab his tentatively warmer-than-his-personality left hand and intertwine it with my right. His lips were straight, no more strain of coffee anywhere.
-x-
Note: Okay, so it wasn't really about coffee (sobs). I tried.