2 Cups Ricocheting Pieces

There are coffee cups in the sink

and I’m wondering how I missed the conversation

in between.

Maybe there never was a brewing moment,

maybe we just found ourselves half full

of a tarnished liquid

we all thought would wake us up.

Maybe this sky spills light every morning

because it knows there are secrets in the night

it isn’t privy to.

Jealousy is a pock marked reflection

on an eye in the sky that tips every month.

Suddenly this is all counter space

and I’m taking up too much room.

He loves to cook,

but its like I’m a spice he doesn’t know how to use.

He likes spicy things

and I’m dark matter,

left over black holes with a touch too much salt.

He is yeast rising,

a slow build on the bottom shelf of a furnace

I keep trying to understand.

I am a pinch of trembling earth,

too much grit, not enough grip

he is a full moon inhalation,

whisky bright breath,

I am just a star-starved sky

making beauty from death.