Is it blood, or is it wine,
That drips down your pallid forearm.
Tracing your flexor carpi.
Chasing your elbow sharply.
Dancing to your palpitating heartbeat.

Mucous lines-
Your nose;
     The tattered sleeves of your unwashed clothes

You sit there, at the cluttered table, across from her coffee cup
You sit there, muttering your woes.
Seething as you stare at it.
It's still half empty,
Within it a kaleidoscope of mould grows.

As the bacteria grows, and she begins to decompose.
It chews on her skin,
Six foot under, in the hardwood coffin she now resides in.

It's time now.
Let go from within
Stand up now.
Drop her coffee cup.
Drop her coffee cup
     In
          To
               The
                     Bin.