Coffee is a ritual.

An almost daily moment each morning. Heat against my hands through ceramic as steam of cinnamon brushes my nose. I hold it there are a long while, just sitting still in my mismatched pajamas and fleece blanket of a losing football team, and I think. I think sometimes how my head still feels full from the sadness of yesterday. Each caffeinated sip trying to dispel the mistakes. 
But they never go away unless I make them. Take a deep breath. Hope for better. Be me. Lift my cracked mug for that last sip. 



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