I get that warm gushy, mushy feeling
as the last of the coffee swirls in my mouth,
crashing against the pink walls
it is controlled in, all the juices
from the body, blending perfectly
with the milk, and coffee, and water
and sugar from the pantry below the rooms.
I nestle comfortable in my chair,
my spine jutting with ease with the
Styrofoam under the red, cheap cloth
my knee perched up, ankle left loose
on the steel hand rest of the chair;
my ponytail playing chase with the
the slight air that the fan sends in my way.
Arms across the chest, my eyelids flutter,
just as they do when I feel droopy, the head
reminding me of the paper that I have due
and my heart, of the feather-like mattress
that crushes under me each night; as the eyes
shut close, the world starts to breathe and stops
as the smell of coffee warms my nostrils, yet again.
The World Past Me 