I poured the coffee and reached for the jug

I poured the coffee and reached for the jug,

the plastic handle slick with a bit of condensation.

There was a yellow crust around the rim,

a dry warning I ignored with a shrug

until the white threads bloomed in a strange formation,

curling through the black like a sinking limb.

It’s the quiet way things go south in the dark

while you’re busy looking at something else.

One day it’s fine, and the next it’s a mess

of bitter clumps and a sour, lingering mark

that stays on the tongue like a ringing of bells

or a debt you forgot you had to confess.