They sit young, like new store bought candlesticks, the teapot calls the teacup black, his hair drips wax down his pants, like honeycomb. The cigarettes combust in her loneliness, pride kissed the cat, they call for more coffee. You’d think they’d be leaving, but no one is. The mirrors watch the teaspoons rust and her lips melt from heartbreak into the ice cream sundae sandwich root beer float banana split. It is too cold outside to sleep.
New York City, April 2012