My eyelids are heavier than the coffee pot every morning, I’ve made enough for two but you prefer tea. You prefer leaves, sweet or not like you prefer me near or far. Which is to say you don’t really care for me, or where I am. This steaming cup of reality I say I’ll drink once cooled, sits on the table as I wait for you to tell me what you promised you’d say. The cup never cools and you don’t make a sound
Snippet from a poem I’ll probably never finish (via isaacwrites)




















