k.r. taylor

it was fifty-two degrees when i woke up
and my hips ached at the thought of my mother

the coffee permeated the kitchen above the cold tiles
and i noticed the past expiration date on the milk
as the black coffee turned to a chestnut wave
and then into the color of sand before the ocean
drenched it with its sadness

i poured the mistake of my beverage down the drain
and wondered if i am always going to ruin 
perfectly good things

the time on the microwave changed
as time always does no matter where i stand
in this apprehensive game with healing

so i keep walking across the kitchen
to the bathroom, to the mirror, to the doorway
to another doorway and another 
until the day
could be described as a series of entrances and exits
a cycle of arriving and leaving

and wondering if this is all we get

maybe it isn’t, but i am still longing for coffee
without time to go replace the spoiled milk
i mistakenly put back in the fridge.