My love, I called out but you would not sing.
Lanterns in my temple darkened. The moon
Shone crimson. No owl or insect was heard.
I lit a match beneath that sharp shadow.
I held it until my fingertips singed.
I quickly lit another. Nothing moved.
I was alone and had no grand desire
But your arms around me. Impossible.
I will not need to call your name again.
Light a match! Tremble at my blasphemy!
For I have made another one of you,
And I have imprisoned that one within me.
You can keep something on a shelf too long—
Batteries drained of blood, slack elastic,
Motionless clothes remembered by the moths.
Ink hardens. Paper turns to light, then air.
For all these years I drank my coffee black.
In some way it was like seeing her face.
I would claim it was all unbearable,
To suffer being replaced and replaced
Until the sky froze and the moon fell down,
But I can hear her piercing mocking laugh,
Her condemnation of cream and sugar,
And I so desperate for her regard…
If I am compelled to tell the whole truth
I craved to trade the sweet for the bitter.
Now those moments are a decade removed,
And almost all of that time spent without her.
The world entire was the point of a sword
As I stumbled through a haze of nightmare.
Why torment myself over a woman
Who discarded me and chose another?
The seven years expired. The sand ran out
And yet I stared into the emptied glass.
A coworker woke me with a question.
She asked if I needed a drink. I asked
For coffee. “Black,” she said with a wise nod—
Not the first time I have begged for a cup.
I stopped her. “No,” I said. “Cream and sugar.”
“How much sugar?”
“Um, one standard unit.”
“How much cream?”
“I suppose one will do.”
She handed it over. I twirled the spoon
And smiled at the sound of scraped ceramic.
I closed my eyes. I took a drink. It tasted good.
