Cups

I drink from whatever cups are left on the windowsill.
it has been long enough but I still have not discovered my own
water source. so I find my reflection in small places: little
circular faces peering up at me from day-old glasses of Coke
and halves of bathroom mirrors where I wasted all the smiles
I had saved up for you. instead I watched you walk up stairs
with some other girl, and she was careening into you hard
and her hair was much longer than mine. I suppose that is
a sign. her smiles fell on your face and you brought her
to your lips, and I can only imagine where it went from there.
I was even stupid enough to knock on your door, as if you
weren't smiling into her lips behind it. and of course I am still
sitting here in an unlit room, drinking from someone else's cups
and letting my fingers fumble over this old keyboard rather than
talking to you, or creating enough gravity to make you
careen into me the way she did into you.
maybe this is all in my imagination.
either way, I think the cure
is just some fresh water.