Cold Coffee

There’s a cold coffee on my bedside table.
I knew I wouldn’t drink it.
The coffee stares with great accusation.
I just wanted warmth and a change of scenery,
change of taste against my tongue.
Is that so wrong?
Is it so wrong to want things?
To want to be wanted?
I wanted the winter to end.
It was a long winter,
unrelenting and unforgiving,
so no wonder the coffee was cold.
It is still so relentless,
there is no wonder left in the frosty, frozen grass outside,
I walk on broken glass and egg shells,
so I don’t spook the ghosts that gaze at my body as I sleep.
My flowers have forsaken me,
and my imprisoned soul petitions for my heart to be more careful,
but she is cold now too,
cold and void of caution.