and there was nothing.
No feeling,

Just a hopeless,
empty canvas,
with a shortage of paints.

Maybe
we should color with
feelings or words
painting a landscape
of life
and of hurt

but I am still
that empty canvas
unmade,
losing hope
in the artist

Cream, water from tap,
Java swirls— transmuting mug,
Morning alchemy.

The smell of coffee and black sharpie fill your senses
Dragging yourself out of bed, you wrap the sheet around your naked body
Your head hurts more with every movement, every thought.

The sticky note on the door
written in small, squished, boy-like writing
"I never promised you forever."