I Don't Drink Coffee

Lbena T-Michael

Why are you mad at me

for getting mad at you

for asking me to grab a coffee with you?

You’ve known me for years.

You should know I don’t drink coffee.

Our first date was at a coffee shop.

I ordered a chai.

You asked me why.

I said, “I don’t drink coffee.”

I’ve never liked the taste.

I think it’s quite gross.

Maybe my taste buds are immature.

But I think it’s immature

that you’re mad at me

for getting mad at you

for asking me to grab a coffee with you.

You’ve known me for years.

You should know I don’t drink coffee.

My parents drink coffee

about three times a day.

So maybe that’s the reason I am this way —

wanting to stray away from which I came,

exchanging caffeine

for the pain of being different.

I sit with them as they drink their coffee,

and they ask, “Do you want a cup of joe?”

And instead of simply replying “no,”

I repeat, “I don’t drink coffee,”

with the hope that it will stick this time.

You’ve known me for years.

You should know I don’t drink coffee.

I drank coffee a few times back in my undergrad,

pulling allnighters to study for tests

and prepping for labs.

But I never told you about these late nights,

and even if I had —

you’ve known me for years.

You should know I don’t drink coffee.

Our paths diverged

and converged once more.

Now, reconnecting

over a cup of coffee.

I was just excited to see you again,

but clearly, you don’t see me —

not in the reflection

of the singular cup of coffee

we are sat over,

and not in true understanding.

Like two distant neighbours who know each other’s names — 

That is your familiarity to me.

To be remembered is to be loved.

To be loved is to be seen.

So how could you be mad at me

for getting mad at you

for asking me to grab a coffee with you

when I have told you a million times

that I don’t drink coffee?