to the stars who listen: poetry

12. coffee and cream

coffee and cream

I didn't like that name before I met her,
now it has become mesmeric music to my ears,
as, with a warm laugh and ignited eyes,
reminiscent of a crackling log fire and aromatic Christmas spices
she played my heartstrings like a guitar
then claimed them as her own.
cashmere jumpers, a cascade of dirty blonde hair and a pen held gently between lips like a rose
have fixated as my ethereality
too vivid to be a figment of my imagination,
yet too exquisite to be true.
she was sculpted by angels,
a goddess, her jawline sharp,
her accentuated features carved from ivory,
her every movement swishing and graceful
flawlessly flawed in her beauty.
her eloquent sentences are formed by strings of stars, mellifluous and tinkling, accompanied by a lilting, satin voice;
her eyes are almonds in the firelight
and she is coffee and cream in the morning
as you watch your breath rise into the winter air
and know that she is, in part, the reason why
you got out of bed this morning.