I wish I could accept, and act on, the lived-experience knowledge that the second cup of coffee will make the entire morning coffee experience only half, instead of twice, as good as it would have been if I had stopped at one.

I love the euphoria which follows the first and loathe the jitters which follow the second and yet, I find myself unable to stop at one.

I allow myself the second, even as the crema dregs of the first ring the cup of the second, making it look desperate instead of loved. Even as I take my first sip of the second and know that it is too strong, not strong enough, over-milked, under-milked, or I have burnt the coffee grounds, still I drink the second.

As I drink this bitter, wrongly-milked brew, my love for the first and my sorrow for its end grow stronger.