Tepid

The kettle clicked off too soon,

a half-hearted whistle, then none.

My coffee, brewed under a pale afternoon moon,

was neither warm nor cold, just barely begun.

No steam rose, no comforting plume,

just a flat, brown surface, uninviting and dull.

It filled the mug, but left no room

for the comfort I needed, making me pull

away from the taste, the bland, slight heat.

It didn't sting, it didn't soothe.

Just a mug of something, incomplete,

a promise broken, hard to prove.