The Second Mug, Or, An Unstarted Day

The first one, gone.

Just a brown stain now,

a dried-up well at the mug's base,

a ring of proof

I’ve already burned through

too many hours, too few words.

And the quiet starts to creep,

the kind that makes you chew the inside of your cheek.

It’s not peace, not really,

more like a slow, insistent drain.

So I need another. Not want. Need.

This isn’t about taste, or warmth,

or the bitter kick that stings your tongue.

It’s about the next breath,

the next click of the pen, the next small lie

I tell myself to just keep on.

It’s the noise I make

while the water boils,

the clatter of spoon against ceramic.

Anything to push back the silence,

just a little longer.

Anything but that blank page,

and the thought of another un-begun day.