cupped

The interior of an empty cup.
Refusing to be filled
hesitating on the impulse of
the dark stain left for the coffee reader to
unveil-
I speak in a low tone. Someone is coughing I can hear its monochromatic repetitions, dusting away.
I speak in a lower tone when I tell you my bones ache. They ache from growing inch by inch displacing the muscles attached to them.

People around me are rushing to the subway entrance with their fists in their pockets ... my shoulder brushes on someone’s cold red jacket. The tube, the tunnel, why is it such a waste of time...why is my destination the ultimate place to-breathe-to-move? We sit quietly on the most isolated scarlet and grey seat, diving in those light books and these heavy shopping bags. The comfortable etiquette, the solution to civilization and Western democracy, is gushed out on the cover of a book this girl with gold locks is reading: Middle Eastern People. Like the herd, or the mysterious creatures on the other side of the moon. Desperately oblivious.
I contemplate all this and I don’t speak to anyone. Yet sometimes they smile back.

I see my nails grow and break and grow back again, trying hard to stay plain, as my revolting mind rejects time.

I reach out for the cup and the heavy unforgotten steam clings around my hand. It has been ages since the cup was full. A brown coloration has penetrated a deep hole into it, and if you tilt the cup on a 45 degree angle you can see a thin crack moving through.
Ahh..but who cares it’s just a fucking cup. I’ll get a new one tomorrow.