Dating : Cold Turkey Doesn’t Work For Me.

I lick the honey
from my fingertips.
Chai tea steam
teases my lips
through sips
of cinnamon and cardamom.
This is not what I want
but it’ll do.
For now.

It’s Monday morning.
And I’m missing
My coffee
and You.

I’m staring at 14 boxes
with big black Xes
14 days of caffeine-depleted brain fog,
14 days since I felt your hands.

Fuck.

My apartment and I
look down over traffic,
the whir of the fridge
filling in spaces
between each car that passes,
like an orchestra of white noise.
The soundtrack set to
a backdrop of gloomy weather,
a hopeless romantic protagonist
engulfed in hunger pangs
that follow a looping slideshow of
amorous apparitions.
You’ve been texting me.

Fuck.

I arm myself in all things cozy,
my favorite rainbow stretchy pants,
mermaid skeleton sweater,
oversized beanie.
Maybe I will be good today.
I beg the juicy sensuality of comfort
to consume me
like you used to do.

You tell me to come over to create with you.
And I cave.