I poured it hot enough to burn your 
words from my tongue. Those 
impossible promises or impossible-impossible 
promises. Only promises, still more hollow than 
my own. 
 
But still it doesn’t wake me. You must have made it 
decaf just for me. Oh just for me? 
Thank you! Thank you! For nothing but 
pain and pain and pain and pain and 
maybe love. 
 
A dark ring remains on the table 
beside your darker ring. 
Use a coaster, for once, would you? 
 
The sink is a pile of dirty dishes plus 
one. Don’t let it happen again. 
 
Of course I do everything here in this 
musty peeling-wallpaper drywall-holed cracked-tile broken-doorhinge 
building. And you do nothing but 
complain.