Coffee, black. No cream, one sugar.
A question hangs on the tip of your tongue
caged back by teeth sensitive to a chill in the air.
Bittersweet.

I burn my tongue to give an excuse,
reluctant to fill this dragging silence.
And perhaps you too are hesitant
to shatter this careful balance,
so we tiptoe on the cracks.

You have become so pathetic,
fingers tapping against your arm,
eyes low and shifting, uncertain.
Do you not become yourself unless
you have broken me?

Along with the rising steam
I blow away the clouded remains
of a tired love, A Love Story
between two adults full
of lies.

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