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A coffee to stay alive (Marcella Boccia)
A coffee to stay alive (Marcella Boccia)
A cup, bitter and black,its warmth curling in the chill of morning,a silent promise whisperedfrom the edge of my fingersto the pulse in my wrist—that I will keep breathing.This is all I ask,just enough to hold the fragile threadof beingin this unraveling world.A sip,and the hollow ache insidesettles like dust in the corners of my mind,an empty silence that isn’t quite silence,but a murmur,faint, barely heard,like a far-off song from an unseen crowd.I drinkbecause I am afraid to let go.Afraid of what will be leftwhen the tremor of my hand subsides.Afraid of the stillnessthat follows the storm of thoughts,the dark, endless floodthat rises from the cornersof my consciousness.I drinkto feel the edges of me,the sharpness of the world,the bite of cold air on my skin.To remind myself I am still here,still fighting,still tangled in the webof this fragile, fleeting life.A coffee to stay alive—not a revival,but a survival.Not a love song,but a desperate plea.A prayer whispered into the steam,a ritual of resistanceagainst the collapse of all things.It’s the pause before the storm,the breath before the crash,the moment between thoughts,the quiet beat of a heart that knowsit can’t stay still forever,but for now—for now,it will.A coffee to stay alive,to swallow the silence and the pain,to swallow the hunger for a worldthat can never quite make sense of me.To drink deeply,and then—and then,just breathe.
A cup, bitter and black,its warmth curling in the chill of morning,a silent promise whisperedfrom the edge of my fingersto the pulse in my wrist—that I will keep breathing.This is all I ask,just enough to hold the fragile threadof beingin this unraveling world.A sip,and the hollow ache insidesettles like dust in the corners of my mind,an empty silence that isn’t quite silence,but a murmur,faint, barely heard,like a far-off song from an unseen crowd.I drinkbecause I am afraid to let go.Afraid of what will be leftwhen the tremor of my hand subsides.Afraid of the stillnessthat follows the storm of thoughts,the dark, endless floodthat rises from the cornersof my consciousness.I drinkto feel the edges of me,the sharpness of the world,the bite of cold air on my skin.To remind myself I am still here,still fighting,still tangled in the webof this fragile, fleeting life.A coffee to stay alive—not a revival,but a survival.Not a love song,but a desperate plea.A prayer whispered into the steam,a ritual of resistanceagainst the collapse of all things.It’s the pause before the storm,the breath before the crash,the moment between thoughts,the quiet beat of a heart that knowsit can’t stay still forever,but for now—for now,it will.A coffee to stay alive,to swallow the silence and the pain,to swallow the hunger for a worldthat can never quite make sense of me.To drink deeply,and then—and then,just breathe.
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By MARCELLA BOCCIAA coffee to stay alive (Marcella Boccia)
A cup, bitter and black,its warmth curling in the chill of morning,a silent promise whisperedfrom the edge of my fingersto the pulse in my wrist—that I will keep breathing.This is all I ask,just enough to hold the fragile threadof beingin this unraveling world.A sip,and the hollow ache insidesettles like dust in the corners of my mind,an empty silence that isn’t quite silence,but a murmur,faint, barely heard,like a far-off song from an unseen crowd.I drinkbecause I am afraid to let go.Afraid of what will be leftwhen the tremor of my hand subsides.Afraid of the stillnessthat follows the storm of thoughts,the dark, endless floodthat rises from the cornersof my consciousness.I drinkto feel the edges of me,the sharpness of the world,the bite of cold air on my skin.To remind myself I am still here,still fighting,still tangled in the webof this fragile, fleeting life.A coffee to stay alive—not a revival,but a survival.Not a love song,but a desperate plea.A prayer whispered into the steam,a ritual of resistanceagainst the collapse of all things.It’s the pause before the storm,the breath before the crash,the moment between thoughts,the quiet beat of a heart that knowsit can’t stay still forever,but for now—for now,it will.A coffee to stay alive,to swallow the silence and the pain,to swallow the hunger for a worldthat can never quite make sense of me.To drink deeply,and then—and then,just breathe.
A cup, bitter and black,its warmth curling in the chill of morning,a silent promise whisperedfrom the edge of my fingersto the pulse in my wrist—that I will keep breathing.This is all I ask,just enough to hold the fragile threadof beingin this unraveling world.A sip,and the hollow ache insidesettles like dust in the corners of my mind,an empty silence that isn’t quite silence,but a murmur,faint, barely heard,like a far-off song from an unseen crowd.I drinkbecause I am afraid to let go.Afraid of what will be leftwhen the tremor of my hand subsides.Afraid of the stillnessthat follows the storm of thoughts,the dark, endless floodthat rises from the cornersof my consciousness.I drinkto feel the edges of me,the sharpness of the world,the bite of cold air on my skin.To remind myself I am still here,still fighting,still tangled in the webof this fragile, fleeting life.A coffee to stay alive—not a revival,but a survival.Not a love song,but a desperate plea.A prayer whispered into the steam,a ritual of resistanceagainst the collapse of all things.It’s the pause before the storm,the breath before the crash,the moment between thoughts,the quiet beat of a heart that knowsit can’t stay still forever,but for now—for now,it will.A coffee to stay alive,to swallow the silence and the pain,to swallow the hunger for a worldthat can never quite make sense of me.To drink deeply,and then—and then,just breathe.