Face in my coffee shining
Hard to make out sometimes
Who’s face is it?
Is it me looking in or out?
Where do I begin or the cup end?
Beginnings and endings are not so clear
The story is written somewhere on faded parchment
Light through the window rests on a turned page
I feel the warming touch of the morning’s remembrance
Soon the paper, the story, the cup, and the Face will merge
For now I will enjoy my coffee

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