I can hear your thoughts while you throw another
Beer can on the ground. Your room, is filled with used coffee filters.
Covered with papers and ***** clothes,

I am  sitting on your unmade bed, you spit on the floor and tell me you don’t know any better, because you love me.

My coffee *** is moldy and smells like your room used to smell. When I opened it there was green everywhere, a marker of time,
And while standing in line at the gas station,
it wasn’t a song on the radio,
it wasn’t someone who looked like you,

it was the warmth of a styrophom cup,
the way my mouth tastes like yours did after the first sip,
the smell of you in the morning when you didn’t sleep the night before

the stale smell of morning when your sleep was restless and no cigarette will calm you.
They just collect outside your door, you don’t even smoke them right.

I stand across from your old apartment; I walk by in hopes that you have somehow come back.
The cold win blows right through me, through a hole in my body.





I Hold my cup close to my chest, this is just a symbol now, something you do to keep the memories straight.

Something to stay awake, alert, not as dead as you look

(feel)


you throw the lipstick stained cup away with the rest of the garbage and keep walking, you return home to find your coffee machine is broken.

You put it in the box it came in, outside in the garbage with a note that says,

“Don’t bother, it’s broken”