The Stale Ring, or, Dancing Dust

Woke up, a heavy kind of soft.

Pulled the blanket from my face, a slow

peeling back, to find the light, you know?

And there it was, perched on the nightstand's loft.

Last night's coffee cup. Still there.

A dried brown ring, a perfect stain,

at the bottom. A small, dull pain.

The air felt thick, a heavy, quiet glare

Of morning. Thin through dusty blinds,

the light just barely cut its way.

And motes, they danced, a silent play,

in patterns that the tired mind finds.

No urgency. Just this dull ache.

A smell of stale, of what's been left.

And all the small decisions, deftly

undone, for goodness sake.