Honest drops of Tuesday night
(what few there were)
drained into electric puddles
of coffee and midnight.

Mournful whistles of
molecules
. (and coffee pots)
alive, ready,
waiting
rang teasingly between the walls,
dancing in their own
kinetic waltz
of lust and touch.

All that humming in the thick
warmth of 12 o'something
was less than love
but more than just the coffee.
. (Black with one sugar. No milk. No exceptions.)

He was only 1.2 feet away from her
but in the barren wasteland of human wanting
he was a canyon and five full city streets
from touching her
.

Her polite laugh seemed to resound for centuries
through his high towers
of almost-did's and wanted-to's.

This man was
sad.

[sad to be losing the only thing he ever wanted more than his next breath. He lived with every mistake he ever made resting in a black shoebox under his empty bed filled with memories of 'her'. Lost in a constant kinesis of longing, hope, need, desire, regret and desperation. This kinetic sad can not go on forever]

He thought

.
It's amazing how many years there are
between 12:00 and 12:01

and it's already 12:08.