Morbid

His eyes are
dark of course
his gaze drab
and lacking
his fingers thin and long
made for pressing down
on the wooden necks
of old cellos,
made for pattering along the
path of the black and white
plastic of
piano keys.

He drinks his coffee
black
because he's so sick of
the sweetness.
Tired of the tart smiles
of false romance,
bored with the everyday
metronome of her beauty as
it threatens to dictate
the rhythm of his universe.

The robust,
power of bitter
structure quakes his tongue
and he feels as though
he has just breathed in
a black
ocean.
He sputters
and spits
and is not careful
about staining his new
white dress shirt.

He laughs.
This coffee reminds
him of his words
and he thinks its ironic.
Irony is funny to him.

He stares at a picture
of her that he keeps
telling himself he'll get rid of
but just never gets around to it
he stares at it
and closes his dark eyes.

"Tomorrow," He says
and the word rolls
across the desert of his tongue
like tumble weed.
He takes another sip of coffee.
"Tomorrow."