Coffee Ring

I was barefoot
walking on hot concrete
ignoring the searing underneath my feet.

you were kisses
on vertebra and fingertips on eyelashes
and ice cream in coffee.

i was leaving
at one smeared painting,
one wrong chord,
hiding from darkness at dawn.

you were the collector of sand
at the bottom of an hour glass;
making me forget that it had now been months
that our mugs had collected rings on windowsills
like the way a tree collects rings.

and now,

after all the tied up shoe laces,
the leaning out of windows,

and the water rescues,
I find us
here
like coffee rings
on a windowsill.