Burnt Blackened Grounds

Black coffee in a chipped mug. Bitter as the fall air. Like you in the end. It’s cold like your hand the last time I held it. Espresso—brown then black in an instant. This creation in duo little glasses; he lets it die. Burnt course grounds in the bottom of a cup. Gritty. Dirt—brown under the sun; black in this rain. Chestnut hair—a sea of it knotted and gnarled—saturated and dark. Brides in midnight gossamer veils.

White roses on wrought iron. I watch them wilt, wither, turn brown. I want them to blacken and burn. Burn like leaves on a cloudy Sunday. Burn away into ashes. White cylinders burn between my fingers one after another. Grime under broken bitten nails. Ash floats away—pummeled to pavement by tiny drops. Gray sidewalk darkened with water. Dirty-limp leaves clogging the gutter, and rain water pools. I want to be small, to sink in obsidian gutter ponds. No brown in my mug without cream. No black either now that dregs scratch down my throat.

Black soles raise me, carry me over the threshold, lead me to a barrier between me and the murderer. Fingers on the edge of cold stone, dark like volcanic rock. Never fell from the sky, cooling from red to black. Dense. Pulverizing anything in its landing zone. Coffee black. No room for cream. Dregs of the pot in the chipped mug. Cold metal on bare thighs. Oceans of people milling with black vinyl shields don’t know they’re already wet. They’re already water. Briny like the sea and circling the drain. Just like you in those last days. Like this coffee will when I leave it unconsumed.

I close my eyes and there I find black.