you submerge your teabag again,
wringing its heart of faded spices. my coffee
is cold, a bleak shard of marchpane
gnawing like the frost exhalations of january.
greasy linoleum frays beneath our feet.
a waitress with lipstick grit netting
her teeth pours /spills/ me a refill, the pleat
of steam hanging between us. your
eyes are tumbling cinnamon, steeped
so the irises not-quite-remain
(and we can't even look at each
other, this train
wreck too
much for lonely bystanders)

something brewing between
pots of tea, some fetus of aborted romance
/disease/ is growing fingers and teeth.
your hands bracelet my wrists
(the way I used to love)

I was born in january, so I have a particular fondness for it. but it is a time of endings and emptiness...perhaps that's why I like it?