Let me drink my fifth, and my heart shudder and fail
Of  bitterness that I taste from you,
the lukewarm look from your eyes,
they no longer matter, I drank my last, last night.
While the music drowned me in your absence,
and you were somewhere, where you ought to be,
as long as it is not here.
I value my sadness, like the brewed scent of your perfume,
and the sound of steam, whistling inside my head,
as I made my last cup, my last memory of you,
steal away my sleep and kiss my soul with the darkness;
spilled grains of pain across the floor.
Does it matter? I am wide awake now,
with coffee-stained lips in September.

-just literature, I guess.