Coffee

Six thirty eight,
chaos on the radio,
nothing better to do
than to be thinking of you.
 
Eyes caught on the weather outside
driving to camp,
no nerves, I'm blagging,
head-flagging.

I always get these pangs,
machetes to the brain
whenever centered in a storm of change,
under a heavy sky, distant and strange.

I imagine sinking in coffee,
burnt and over-sugared,
loosening off that close-to-death lasso,
faking wellness, thinking of you.

It's a thing I do,
when I'm feeling lost,
you and I,
beside sea, huddled under dark sky.

And I know we're years away
from where we were,
I know 'togetherness' swallowed us whole
but there'll always be a hole.

You said I was infatuated.
I said you were a prick.
You meant it,
I meant it.

And life rolled away from toxicity -
harmony struck for me
and you too, I hope,
away from where those broken souls elope.