Black Coffee

by Lora Mathis

It’s your flaws
I want to taste.
Your crooked mouth.
The way you smell after
being out all day.
The lump in your throat.
Your shaky hands.
Your morning breath.
Your prickly legs.
Your pimpled politeness.
Your tangled hair.

I don’t want to be able to
run my fingers through you
easily. It’s no fun writing
about perfections.

I want to talk about you–
flawed,
crooked,
endless
you.