It’s a puzzle
in her clenched-teeth smile
as she remarks on the slowed particles in her coffee
between telling me her father is passing
and the rent is past due.

Her lids barely open
beyond the sunset
auburn of her eye shadow,
and she sips at the foamy milk chocolate bile
anyway,

before casually admitting she’s met someone new.
But at this stage
she only tells him about the good days.
I still get the bad,
like the years when she used to kiss my cheek.

Only today,
she’s wearing lipstick.