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They say I make the best cup of coffee!

As if the coffee beans turn into golden butterflies when I erase their existence with my own hands.

How merrily I drown 'em inside an almost flooded space of warmth 

Now slowly changing its colors

Until one's death defines another's life

That you cannot really differentiate between the deceased and the alive

But I play the murderer!

I offer some sweetness at the funeral and the butterflies rise in search of that perfect flower.

If they land on your nose, they have found one.

"Coffee is served, my love!"

But you would not take a sip.

And I wonder why!

Why is it that you never sink in my love?

Why is it that you turn cold in my warmth?

Is it because I did not kill the coffee beans enough that their bitterness haunts you?

Or is it that I added too much sugar in my love that sets off your flight?

You keep running away, I keep running behind

For your denial of caffeine turns into my dismissal of the same the morning after; followed by the dusk and then the night.

The coffee beans today refuse to die.

There is no drowning, there is no funeral.

Golden butterflies are now considered extinct.

Your refusal is the only memory I have,

Bitter be it!

At least the coffee used to be sweet enough,

I know I always made the best cup!

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