You taste bitter
with every morning
your burning skeleton turns
and now it’s merely freezing.
Coffee is meant to be brewed in a pot,
not an appliance that only serves one.
You’re meant to be enjoyed over
deep conversation and a good book,
yet you rest motionless in a cup
barren as quicksand — desiccating,
creating my isolated tomb.
I’m left with a liar —
a mug of empty promises.