The coffee spilled—

The coffee spilled—

a bruise blooming dark and slow

across my journal’s open page.

Words run and smear

like secrets I’m not sure I own,

shifting in the stain’s slow bleed.

That bitter black spills more than drink:

smudged hours,

half-finished thoughts,

voices trailing off.

Each stain is a bruise,

a map of pauses and tries,

dark and sharp against the pale.

Coffee isn’t just taste;

it’s the weight of a moment

I couldn’t hold steady,

falling through paper,

letting go.