Sentiments of Coffee Beans

I’m sitting in a room made up of only big white walls,

and in the corner shadows start to cast.

With the coffee growing cold

at the bottom of a white mug the grinds sit in backwash,

just as bitter as the actuality

of sweet, sweet memories—

my days of seeing color vividly and in full bloom are irrevocably washed out,

and now I only remember it by looking at the sun too long,

so naturally I stare at the sun too long

trying to remember more than just the taste of vibrancy,

but also, its sensation, but I’m impatient.

Ideas replace what were once beautiful depictions:

I am the girl with an idea of blue, trees, and love-

I imagine this is what being blind would be like

if all to be seen were white.

But I don’t imagine,

Not at all.