The coffee is lukewarm and black

The coffee is lukewarm and black.

I watch the skin beneath your eyes

and wait for something to go slack

under the pressure of your lies.

You tell her you were at the shop,

while shredding napkins on your knee.

The little paper squares won't stop

becoming piles of debris.

My jaw is tight, a rusted hinge.

I hold the words you gave to me

like something bitter, or a fringe

of debt I pay unwillingly.