I wonder when I’ll come to feel blasé
about February. “My feelings are… complex”
you said, as if there’s something else to say

as if there’s someone out there, you suspect
with feelings plain as day, no hint of kinks,
or complicated winding. This was sex,

just sex, just sex, why waste time spilling ink,
and when was anything ever a “just”?
I want to stand up, shout, and fling my drink

into your face, but coffee doesn’t just
have quite the same panache as a martini
so I sit down and quietly combust.