I.
The coffee on the table is as cold
as my hands which shiver
like tree branches during a storm.
I can’t decide
if it’s too bitter or too sweet,
but I will drink it anyway.

II.
I will write about you again,
but I know that’s not entirely true.
I will write about me too.
There will be no crumpled papers
on the floor
because even if this will turn out
as a poorly written poem,
I will not edit my feelings for you.

III.
My heart is pounding
like heavy rain against the rooftop.
There’s a storm in my heart,
and I have named it after you.