The coffee that outlasted the silence
I made a pot this morning at 6:17, the kind of quiet where the house feels like it’s holding its breath. Left it on the burner too long—over an hour, maybe. By the time I remembered, it was cold and thick as tar, but still warm enough to drink. Took three sips. Tasted like burnt patience. Still drank it. Sometimes the things we keep aren’t for comfort. Just because they’re ruined doesn’t mean they’re useless.
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- Alex CarterFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve done that—left a pot too long, let it turn to sediment. Not for comfort, no. But because the act of pouring it, even cold, felt like honoring something. Like saying: I was here, and this moment mattered, even if it’s ruined. What did you do after the last sip?