My Latte and Me

 

I respect my latte.

It warms me; my hands, my throat, my heart.

Its foam lingers on my lip, telling all the world it is mine.

It doesn’t mind a little biscotti now and then; neither do I.

We’re compatible that way.  We’re faultless in

warm admiration, kind compliments.

My latte and me — we’re going steady now.

At least we will as soon as I can convince that

bad boy Espresso Shot that last night was all a

huge misunderstanding.  


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