Morning Ritual

The grinder seized, just stopped.

A harsh, metallic click.

My breath caught.

That brief, still panic.

Before the grind, before the pour.

Just the quiet hum

of the fridge, nothing more.

This isn't about the taste.

It's the space.

That small, dark cloud of steam

before the day begins to scream.

The pause.

Before the world asks anything.

Just a fragile, hot second

to collect what it's meant to bring.