A Cup Of Coffee

Picture Courtesy : London Art Girl
Picture Courtesy : London Art Girl

To P,

You told me you get “too emotionally involved.” You invest too much, I corrected. I said I envied you and you asked me why. I had no answer because I lied. I don’t.

I watch you dial your heartbreak. It hasn’t been a minute and you hang up but you don’t let go of the phone. You don’t let go, you fall too hard and you sink too deep. You are that child who carries the bloody tooth in her pocket to plant when the tooth fairy didn’t show up. You believe she will grant you a tooth tree instead. These are the times I want to punch you in the face.

Instead I bring you a cup of coffee. You scratch at my silence with “I really shouldn’t trust so much.” No, you probably shouldn’t. And yes, you’re going to do the same with the next girl who saunters in. You would not be you if you didn’t.

What is it like to carry all those bloody teeth in your pocket? Mine conveniently has a hole. I wonder if I should get that sewn up. But watching you hold the phone reminds me why I never took to needle work.

There’s a knock and you answer with that smile I know all too well. She tells you she can’t stay long but you’re humming a little too loudly to hear.

I’ll bring the coffee.


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