Coffee turns to a smudge of brown
and my hands shake in the cold night air,
overlooking my smallest of kingdoms
and I wait for you; you’re always there.
You’re the indented letters on a torn-out page
in the diary I filled with a year of control,
you’re the tip of a cigarette, falling to ash;
the all-engulfing, paralysing cold.
Winter turns to spring, seasons pass by,
your unwelcome presence piercing through,
coffee turns to sludge in an abandoned mug,
and I sit by the window;
waiting for you.