Whispers at eve marry wisps of steam over red eye

And beneath the table my feet finds yours for a footsie

Where we vainly hope God's seven eyes will not see,

No wide-eyed moon to witness, nor the barista to pry.



The moonbeam smears you silvery whipped cream

To be licked off greedily by my tongue too stunned to weave poetry.

And Caffeinated by your darkly roasted coffee -

skin I will on a grand piano serenade you on a whim



Are there words you secretly crave I should know

Such as the zephyr tells the shrubs of coffee arabica that they dance gaily in the skies?

Would they be served well-expressed in my eyes

After the sixth emptied demitasse of espresso?