it’s just a scent,
an essence, but
it fills her with
desire most
prosaic

ancient accidents 

and analytic splendor
on the table.

does she think of him?
she does, but
it is nothing like 
he wants

precursors 
to a dance,
in hazelnut
and vague mismatched
capitulations.

he tells her that
it's all a dream;
she tells him all
her secrets

and everyone who watches
sees the game

it's just a scent,
an essence, but
the coffee has
intention

their difference
is what makes them

the same