My morning coffee

I clearly knew,

then,

when I drank that last sip of coffee,

that it would be cold.

I mean,

it had to be.

The memory of the first sip,

God that first sip,

had already faded.

Most certainly,

I was already dreaming of the next first sip.

How could I not?

The first sip is always too hot.

Your tongue,

your lips,

your throat,

Just there, waiting to be burnt.

And while, the sips to come are the most enjoyable yet,

You soon realise that the end is coming

The cup is not as warm anymore,

not as heavy.

And the dread, of knowing its done, and the cup, just there, looking at you from the table, excited for that last bit of loving,

That sip,

Is it worth it?

You know it will be a shiver delivered to your insides,

Yet your mouth cannot believe the gut wrenching feeling,

the crush,

the sharp sensation of loss,

as if somehow, your senses could have still felt hope that your logic might have been wrong, and no, the last sip wouldnt be so cold.

The last time we fucked, it was seven degrees outside, but you were sweating.

I licked the moisture of our past from your chest,

And I knew, right there,

That nothing would ever taste so salty again