Disappointment is the taste of your tongue lingering
on the curve of my lips.
It is the taste of black coffee gone stale at ten fifteen in the morning after you're gone.
The pain I feel is that of the ember side of your cigarette pressed deeply
into the palm of my left hand as the only thing you'd ever truly given me.

The defeat I hear is hidden in your voice during the call I received from you late last night
amongst the terrified willingness to try and pick up the phone in the first place.
It's the type of disappointment you understand on the opposite end of the line.
It's the disappointment you smell on his lips when you're not even with him.

And I hate that I want to taste again the malt liquor on your tongue,
that I want to feel your fingertips dancing across fresh wounds.
That I want to feel the fear and anxiety by plummeting into your arms in the middle of the night until I realize you're not there.
It is the type of disappointment I feel in myself for ever having tried to pursue something as wild and as captivating as you.