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.