Caffeinated Illusion

You taste bitter

with every morning

that passes,

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.

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.