The Polluted Hue of Bricks

The clouds were a spattering of white against a cornflower sky,

the color of blueberries fading to an eventual sandy grey.

The view outside our picture window was of the ocean

littered with large naval ships and palm trees,

the highway of hurried, unaware cars,

and the olive green apartment that stood in front of it all

as if to claim importance over such a trivial thing as the ocean.

You stood in our yellow kitchen holding your favorite red cup,

the one you bought on our last vacation to Mexico

from the little old woman in the flowery dress and white hair,

who had spoken not a word of English

but had smiled a large, toothless grin when you met her espresso eyes,

and handed you the humble cup she had made herself

after receiving the treasure of a few crinkled bills.

The water filled the sink behind you,

bubbles forming and growing around the breakfast dishes

and the plate and fork from a solitary dinner for one

in an evening serenaded by the symphony

of departing planes and lazy trains that drowned out the sea

but mimicked the crash of the muted ocean waves.

And slowly you sipped your coffee,

your calm face surveying mine,

your mask of serenity fixed firmly in place

hiding any thoughts you might be having

as the words you laid at my feet bit my toes,

begging for attention while I still didn’t know what to do with them.

I couldn't help but look away

to avoid the torment of your jagged stare.

But when I eventually looked up

          you were gone

and only the ceramic cup remained,

the red piercing daggers through the fog of my reality

while housing the last of your kiss

that never met my lips

but now exists in the cold remnants of espresso

that have stained the inside of the cup

          the polluted hue of bricks.

Your packed bags vanished from their resting place by the door,

a lifetime of memories wrapped up in mere trinkets severed in half,

leaving our modest apartment a vast cave in shocked silence.

And the sink continued to fill,

the bubbles lost to infinity

as the water fell over the sides in a continuous stream of insistence.

           But I couldn’t see it.

          And I couldn’t hear it.

All that existed was the roar of departing planes,

the sad wail of haunting trains,

an ocean that hid in the shadows of ships,

and the hateful cup that mocked me in its existence

while painting my world a muddy shade of red.