My brew
Brewed itself
And washed
My own cup.
I have drowned
In this well.
My spoon stirs
All doubts.
Sugar’s no use
When something
As stale as this
Blinds the heart,
Abused,
And licked
With a kiss.
Was it a kiss?
I pursed my lips
Upon the scent
Of a bitter brew
In honey.
I pushed the muffin,
Plate-full;
I have been full
Yet hungry.
I sat myself near
The nearest window
And spat;
Spit landing on a cup
Below.
My hot cup turning cold,
And my spoon,
Silver,
Shiny –
How many have I used?
The 4th, 5th, 6th –
I counted 11,
Including you.
This cup of you
Never lies.
It never did
(unlike you).
The froth,
Camouflaged;
The brew,
Good for two.