coffee stain memories (an aging love)

our dozen or so mugs,
all white, her color of choice,
accumulating stains of black-brown coffee
that the dishwasher poetically concedes,
a decade plus of drinking, now, oh-now,
****** and can’t be removed

the lips of some are chipped,
the lips of some are chapped,
but they remain employed
for first coffee is a demonstrable
affectation of affection that losing
would be costly

but one of us soto voce, quietly whispers
the radical ionized idea,
shouldn’t we replace,
this should-not is an update, a cognition of
a bridge too far,
both agreeing, both conceding the symbolism,
the heart acknowledges a momentary thrombosis,
for the losing turnover is a winless loss
messaging in and about,
an aging staining love losing

~
A no ki tov tuesday poem

Even if it only glitters in the sky approaching the city,
as your vision blurs and smog suffocates your lungs.
We all return to gaze into the faded stained crossing,
to remember when two fading breaths drifted apart,
eyes glistening in the hourglass of two twisted hearts.

I pretend these eyes see brief clarity beneath,
this path of split ends of unkempt dreads.
Not much to send but I'm tempted to lend,
a broken sentence with no pretense.

Kept fighting rewriting reread recollections,
staring at dead stars lighting my reflection.
Seeing what is and what could be there.
What is and what could be tangibly unaware.
Like what was and what wasn't we are both here and there.
Forgetten remains conciously aware.

So now I sit smoking a ciggarette,
Fighting to write something of sense.
Staring into pixels of kaleidescope pills.
A constant reminder of concocting thrills.
Beginning to burn out and all I wrote:
What fades away turned to smoke.

Everyone wears white shoes
What's wrong with black?
With black, nothing stains
Strong in color, fierce in stride

While white is too easily
Stained by whatever touches it
Treading, becoming ***** who
swore they were pure to heart

Some people do care
to step into the dark
puddle, the puddle that
ripples in concealed rage

She wanted to remain pure,
unstained,
unpoked.
She had toyed with getting a tattoo
but realised it wasn’t
individual anymore.
But she was in need of validation.
Was she past her peak? She’s still cool right?

The needle stuck into her skin like the scent of an old lover. It left a fizzy sensation behind.
The ink spread.
She kept poking,
stabbing,
stick n poking.

What emerged was a star.

Startled,
strained by Tar,
scarred,
her sparkle faded.

A nasty stain,
You'll wring the curtains of me
Someday.

Some may think where
                              stained.

But where just
          not there
               version of clean.

i don't think i like nice people
i feel guilty around them
like my past stains me still
and they see it all

I feel like I need to spill my feelings
into some other coffee.