it’s easy to pretend like this is

normal. like sobbing every night before bed

because of yet another argument

is normal.

it’s easy because it’s our only ritual.

we take turns,

switch off being the “better person”

of erasing any feelings and listening to the other.

it’s become so easy that i no longer

remember whose turn it is. i erase

my anger every morning. shut down. i wonder

how long until you do too.

two cups of coffee.

one’s empty,

and the other is getting cold.

the chair you sat in hasn’t been tucked back in

you’ve always had that bad habit

of leaving things unfinished

your coffee, too, it

weeps as it sits across from me

growing cold in the space where you’re supposed to be

you’re always doing this

coming back when i was just fine

without you

just when i’ve pulled you out of my head

and i can sleep without your face

glued to the inside of my skull

holding my hand to bring me back

into that merciless cycle of yours

it’s my fault too, though

cause i always let you do this

i’ve never been good at

staying away from you

and maybe that’s why we’re always dancing

in circles like this

we're both so convinced that

this is what love is

but our 'love' is a lot like your bad habit

it’s unfinished

it’s that

cold cup of coffee that you left behind and

it’s my empty cup

the one that isn’t full or warm anymore

you’ve left me sitting here

to do god knows what

but just now

you’ve left my heart, too.

i hope you find a new person to drink coffee with.

and i hope they take it black, just like you do

cause you need someone who

loves that bitterness

then maybe they could love you, too.

We're here, across from each other

I kind of regret bringing you your favorite

Double shot espresso, half and half with vanilla

And cinnamon

It smells nice

You smell nice

You're not drinking it, though

And I'm awkwardly sipping at mine

Unsure of what to say

And before I know it, my drink is gone

And I don't have anything to do

Other than uncomfortably rearranging

How to put my hands on the cold table

"I'm sorry"

And you nod, offering a weak smile

"It's okay"

So when you leave a few minutes later

There's two cups of coffee left on the table

One's mine, empty

And yours is getting cold

“Two cups of coffee with room for milk in one”, he said, as he stared with a day-dreamy gaze at the morning sun just beginning to rise, piercing the floor-to-ceiling, glass windows, leaving him captivated by its brilliance. Hopefully this is just another episode and the caffeine will help her through, he thought. He sipped his coffee, as he strolled past the tiny gift shop ensconced behind a shiny, metal gate. A bouquet of sunflowers, would have brightened her eyes, he imagined as he thought of her beautiful smile. Well, the coffee will have to do, he muttered to himself.

The peaceful quiet of the empty lobby was accentuated by low-volume, musical renditions of dated pop songs. As he sat for a moment in the solace of sunlight streaming through the blinds, the sleepy elevator tunes stuttered momentarily until interrupted by the sound of chiming bells. He smiled at the coincidence, recalling the early morning sunrise the day, seven years ago, that his twins were born. He’d affectionately nicknamed them Sunnyside-Up and Over-Easy since they arrived at the crack of dawn. The sun’s golden yoke spilled over the mountain range that morning and seeped into the crisp winter air, lighting the thick morning fog with an almost ethereal presence that seemed to crawl across the valley’s grasslands, embraced by the heat. It was heavenly, he remembered, as his heart warmed with thoughts of his precious family while his mind and body slowly woke from his java infusion.

He was still lost in his reminiscing when he stepped back into the bright, sterile atmosphere of the emergency department. As he approached the sliding glass door of his wife’s room, a nurse stepped between him and the smoke-tinted, tempered panes. She turned her gaze down the hall and led him to a small, quiet room just outside the ER doors. Emptiness filled the room except for several tapestry club chairs arranged next to an industrial style end table. “Please have a seat in here for a moment. Your wife’s doctor will be right with you”, she spoke softly as she quickly drew the windowless door to a close.

There, atop the cold metal tabletop, he set the second cup of coffee down next to a gold embossed Gideon’s Bible and a box of Kleenex. While waiting, he scanned the newsfeed on his phone as he mindlessly sipped the last drops of coffee from his cardboard cup as he wondered what tests they were ordering, again, for his wife.

Moments later, a tangibly foreboding presence entered the room along with a man cloaked in the dark, navy blue of hospital issued scrubs upon which the starch-white cotton of a knee-length lab coat, embroidered with matching navy blue thread, was draped. The blood emptied from his core to his feet when his eyes looked away from his phone and upward to meet his rising mourning, head-on, in the compassion filled eyes of the young physician standing there. As if he had been struck by lightning, his body was suddenly coursing with fear and adrenaline. He could feel everything and nothing — all at once.

The Kleenex was useless to comfort him as he had yet to shed any tears. The shock made it impossible for him to process what had just happened. Scattered in thought and trembling, he tried to collect himself as he floated with weak and numb legs back toward his wife’s room.

Grief began to seep from every pore as he slid the heavy door behind him and the weight of seeing his daughters’ pain and suffering crushed and pierced him simultaneously. There, he left his bride, growing cold, as he stammered with sorrow back to the bereavement room to call their family and make arrangements for their girls to say goodbye before technicians transferred her lifeless body to a chilled vault in the morgue.

It was just where he had left it. The odor of her, now cold, cup of coffee nauseated him as he hesitated to dial the phone. For a moment, the tragic loss remained with him and him, alone. How could he form the words to tell his mother-in-law that her daughter was dead? Despite his tunnel vision and sweaty palms, he was cognizant of the fact that once he uttered the words by his own mouth and heard them with his ears, his mind and heart would collide with demolition force. His teeth began to chatter uncontrollably and all he could do was replay the moments before he had left her side. If only I had realized the episode was more than a migraine, he wondered.

If only he could have known that an aneurysm was about to rupture their family apart. Dawn would forever be marked by both the happiest and the most heartbreaking days of their lives and mo(u)rning held new meaning for them from that day forward.

We’re like two cups of coffee.

I pulled you close and loved everything about you,

but you never cared for a taste, instead leaving me cold and forgotten.

Or maybe it’s the opposite...

I’m empty now that you’ve drained me,

and you were always too cold and distant for me to get close enough to take a sip.

The sun has a funny way of waking me up. It's like a kid jumping on their parent's bed obnoxiously. I turn my vision to my hands. One of them was resting under your pillow and the other on your chest. The sun blares through again and I closed my eyes tightly. When I opened them, you were gone. I sighed and got up to start the day.

My day starts the same, I take a shower, get dressed, feed the cat. I snicker thinking that this is technically your cat but you insisted you were allergic to the litter so I had to clean it up. My happiness turned to sadness as my ears struggled to remember the sound of your laugh.

I brushed it off and head to the kitchen, I turned the coffee maker on and brought out the eggs to cook. Cracking two open and scrambling them with salt and pepper just like you used to like it. The coffee maker beeped as I put my eggs on the table and I took out two coffee mugs, red and blue. The blue one was faded and looked old. I sat the red one down in front of me and the blue one on the other side of the table as I ate.

Memories flashed through my brain as my eyes played tricks on me, I looked up to see you smiling, you held the hot coffee cup in both hands and held it up to your face like you always did. You laughed then took a sip, immediately making a sour face as I remember how much you hate plain black coffee. Tears pool up in my eyes as the image fades and all that is left is a dirty blue mug filled with now cold coffee as I sit there crying and whispering apologies.

I clean up and head back up to my room. I'm not ready to go on yet, I can't imagine a world without you in it.

there are two cups of coffee

and one is empty

once full

with a spoonful

of sugar

even after

they still want more

as if they didn't have any before.

there are two cups of coffee

one is empty

but the other is getting cold

it isnt covered in gold

and even though it isnt sweet

doesnt mean you can delete

because even the bitter

deserve good, like any other

I can tell by the last sip that it still hasn't helped you. I want to hold your hand and tell you it is okay, but I know better now. I catch a glimpse of your ravenous blue eyes before looking back down at my hand. The ghost of the bite mark still snakes its way around the crook of my hand.

"Drink," you say, though I know you are looking at the barista bringing someone coffee.

I take a sip though the cold makes me shudder. I'd told you once that I hated cold coffee but as soon as I was your girlfriend, all that I'd told you before then was forgotten and everything I've said since was ignored. Your leg is shaking the whole table, so I clear my throat quietly and hold onto the cup to keep the cold mocha from sloshing all over the table. I feel your eyes dart to me when you sense me holding my cup.

"It won't fall. Let it go."

I oblige, but only for a second before my anxiety takes over and I just use my hand as a coaster. You are perturbed by this, but the present situation makes it impossible for you to give me any thought.

"What are you going to do about it?" you say eventually, though it feels more like a growl or a snarl.

I shrug, but already knowing it isn't good enough, qualify it quickly. "Do you want it?"

"No."

"Then I'll say I don't want it."

"But do you?"

It's a test, one that I've failed many times before and felt. I shrugged nonchalantly, though the alternative to keeping it left shards of my heart pricking my stomach.

"I don't. We're better off without it."

"Good, then you know what to do."

Without warning, you get up and leave. I can feel my eyelids get heavy. Even though I know I don't want you, you still have a power over me. I sip the coffee again, and stare at the walls of the coffee shop. Wood planks like the ones I used to inevitably end up on when we lived together. A chilll like when you decided to ice me out when I denied you sex. The barista, who is totally your type, looking at something small you gave her like the waitress you impregnated did days before she interrupted what bit of happiness I'd imagined in our relationship. I tear a hanging piece of skin on my lip and look at my phone. The alimony has hit. I gave you the better half of eight years of my life and all I get is $750 a month and vague depressive phone calls when you're upset with whatever you're sleeping with this week. And now this.

I leave a small tip, mainly out of obligation, and walk outside. I light a cigarette and nurse it as I walk. The wind is blowing and the homeless are asking me for a light. I oblige. That's how we met, me asking you for a light outside of the bar where you first laid your hands on me. We'd talked for at least an hour about why I was drinking (my mother had been an asshole again) and why you were smoking (baby mama drama), and I ended up waking up in your apartment, thus starting the torment that was our relationship. The fights, the lies, the cheating, the beatings... I put the nub of the cigarette out and pulled another out. I was only halfway home, and already, I was ready to give up on going home and just find a nice alley to spend the night.

That was how our first few arguments ended, with you locking me out and me sleeping on a bench outside or at a neighbor's house. It was fruitless, you and I being together, and I knew it. Especailly with you being so much older and having so much more experience in life than me. Yet, I thought it was sweet of you to get me back in school (though I missed so many days from being in the hospital so often) and thought you were a gentleman from the first time you took me into your home. You even agreed to keep coming over until the social worker's visits stopped and I was able to have it. But now, because I refused you last night, you have once again pulled the rug out from under me. It wasn't enough to get it taken from me. You wanted everyone to know that I was some young whore that hurt you and turned your own kids against me. It was a new low, even for you.

I get to my building, and Amelia is standing there, holding it. I can see from her face she is already struggling and its screaming isn't helping. Silently, I invite her inside. I press the butt onto the side of the building and throw it into the pond in the ashtray. As soon as it is inside, it quiets. My sister eases it into my arms and takes a seat on the loveseat next to the old blood stain. She speaks, but I don't listen, cpativated by its blue eyes and familiar red face. I try to tell her that hte case is still open, but she says she doesn't care and that she can't handle him hurting it anymore.

I half listen then agree, and I can tell her heart calmed immediately. She smiles, and thanks me, then rushes out, leaving me with no time to even learn its name. It looks like you, which both disgusts and intrigues me. A self-deprecating smirk spreads across my face. This is why you didn't want me to keep it. This is the dirty little secret of the week. Though my heart is numb for you, its wiggling in my arms warms my corpse-like torso. Its goofy smile and rosy cheeks are infectious, and I realize that without even trying, it has melted my heart. The bruises on its face and old scabs only make me love it more.

Someday, I will tell you all of this in the heat of an argument. But for now, it needs me. And, for the first time in nine years, I smile.

I had waited. I had tried to wait for you as the hours ticked by. I waited at our table since you had promised to come and talk. We hadn't seen in each in two months, you were always busy.

An hour passed. I waited.

Two hours. I waited.

Three hours.

Four.

Then five.

I waited for you. My cup was emtpy and yours was cold. I had waited for five hours for you but you never came. When I finally decided to leave, I saw you walking the screets. Some harlet was attached to your arm and your back was to me.

I had waited for you, but you didn't come.

The sun is setting,

and I’m still hoping.

That you’ll come walking up the path.

Am I crazy?

Or just hazy?

To still be wishing for your love.

The feeling lingers,

the touch of your skin on my fingers.

How I longed for those moments.

Just give me a chance.

Let us do another dance.

You’ll see that I still care.

Let’s forget the past,

and let me in and I’ll ace whatever test.

We’ll make it through, you’ll see.

Another day has gone.

You aren’t coming home.

Two cups of coffee.

One’s empty, the other’s getting cold.