It’s seven in the evening and the smell of coffee is calming.

Laughter erupts, as I stand alone in the kitchen staring at the kurig.

Coffee drips into the mug I should’ve thrown away months ago.

It’s old,

Like me.

Shit.

I think about love sometimes,

And how much of it I've spilled onto my shirts.

Contrary to beliefs,

Sleeves, were meant for absorbing things.

I wonder, if this was worth calling into work for.

Does dying count as a sickness?

Because, this must be what it feels like.

I told him to leave,

And I meant it,

Yesterday.

But this loneliness...

The coffee calms it,

The anxiety of “Holy shit! What did I do?!”

I love you,

But God,

We are not meant to be.

Because I love you.

My heart is so heavy with love,

It spills.

It stains.

...and you step over the mess it makes.

Unlike my sleeves, you do not absorb.

You turned off your phone,

When you promised you’d come.

You turned off your phone,

And I kept calling.

This love,

how it spills.

It’s embarrassing.

But this coffee,

it will heal.

Eventually.



