"Morning Coffee Whispers " By Dr. Ahmed Al-Qaysi

 

Morning Coffee Whispers  By: Dr. Ahmed Al-Qaysi

She awoke to threads of light slipping shyly from behind the curtains, gently embracing her warm skin with a familiar tenderness. She sat on the bed slowly, her body wrapped in the white cover as if it were guarding her secret from the world. She held the coffee cup between her fingers, its steam rising as though confessing the desires of a night that had not yet been quenched.

She wore black—the kind that whispers more than it speaks, that provokes more than it reveals. Her eyes were half-closed, her lips carrying the red remnants of a dream-filled night. And in her slow movement, lifting the strap of her full bra from her neck, she resembled a promise never spoken aloud.

She was femininity incarnate; every detail of her was not an invitation to profane that ancient stature, but a call for deep contemplation of her inflamed body, to drown in the silence of the moment—where nothing existed but the sound of her burning sighs, the sting of her own breath, the aroma of coffee filling her sensual body, and the pulse of desire hiding behind her eyes.

In that moment, she was not merely sipping coffee—she was tasting you, with her sharp mood and violent sensation, without touching you.

She set the cup aside, as if its taste had quenched nothing of the fire within her. The moment was heavier than routine, deeper than an ordinary morning. In the air lingered an unspoken promise, an invisible tremor between her fingertips and the strands of hair falling over her bare shoulder.

She slowly pulled the cover from her legs, as if concluding a tale that began within the depths of a night dream, preparing to begin a new chapter in the language of the body.

She turned toward the window, her gaze mixed with a trace of waiting… and a trace of invitation.

As if she knew you were watching her—even from behind time or deep within imagination—as if she were speaking to you without a sound.

Come closer… this morning is not complete without you, my love.

She reached toward the empty pillow, feeling for your place as if you had been there just yesterday. Your warmth still clung to her body, her fingers tracing the memory of your touch, gently examining her breasts where your lips had left their seals. Even in your absence, she was at the peak of her imagination of you—imagining your whisper behind her ear, the warmth of your breath, your hot exhalations brushing her neck, your low voice murmuring: Leave the coffee… I have something warmer and sweeter for you.

Her heart trembled lightly—not from cold, but from overwhelming longing—for one who masters the art of slipping into her moments without permission and without departure.

She lifted a lock of hair from her shoulder and tucked it behind her ear with a slow, spontaneous motion—enough to ignite your heart from afar.

She knew there was a gaze watching, a soul breathing with her, even if your body was not present.

She raised the cup once more to her lips, its heat flaring from her. But this time, she did not drink. She let the steam caress her mouth and lips, absorbing the flavor of the coffee—just as you would when you approached her with gentleness and artistry, without haste, planting the first kiss as if performing ablution to pray with her at dawn.

She stretched out on the bed, her arms extended across the pillow, searching for your presence, as though opening a new page upon her body—one on which an adventure without a known ending would be written.

She stared at the ceiling, smiling in the intoxication of the moment. In her eyes lingered a quiet question between her and herself:

Will you come now?

Or will you wait for me to read my longing and call you?

She does not call you with words, but with silence—

with a half-smile on lips flavored with coffee,

with the tremble of her fingers as they touch her neck, tracing the marks of your bites.

Slowly, her hand slips across the white cover, searching for you in its folds, longing boiling within her—to float above it once more like a cloud heavy with rain, letting desire fall upon you in drops like rainfall.

She searches for your voice, your warmth, for those long-awaited moments—the look your eyes never miss when they behold all this beauty arranged for you alone. This femininity is yours alone, as if I were an apple no mouth but yours may bite, no lips but yours may taste, no body may numb me except your breath, my love.

The morning was full of everything—except coffee.

For coffee no longer meant anything once the heat of desire intensified, once the body began reading the messages of longing—messages written with your breath, your yearning, and every moment of absence you decided to end today, slain within your arms.

By: Dr. Ahmed Al-Qaysi