You, my rough and rotten,
Are like coffee.
Coffee with skim milk in it, and sugar.

The anticipation is the best, the expected effects of your touch.
Then the heat. Too much.
After you're gone,
I wish you'd never been here. Such a sour aftertaste!

But later,
I stare into the bottom of my empty mug
Stained with the end of the morning's dregs
And look at my empty arms
And feel cold.

When the kettle screams,
I shrug.
Why *not?